


Storms Blow Through

by ghostiess



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hilarity Ensues, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Multi, also ot3 shenanigans, in a boarding school setting, plus literally every other character you can think of, seriously they're all here, which is beautiful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostiess/pseuds/ghostiess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Easy company at a boarding school, where everyone thinks they're the only gay couple but in reality two dorms to the right there is another gay couple. Featuring George Luz being in everyone's business, drunk/espresso filled game nights, plenty of parties, baseball games ft. H & K company, Hoobler being clumsy and causing everyone issues and, of course, Chef Sobel and running Currahee as punishment for real or imagined infractions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One With The Triple Bunk Bed and The Almost-Sex

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing for Band Of Brothers and what do I decide to do? A great long muti-chaptered fic of course! So if anything is out of character or seems off, that's why. I've not found all the voices yet.
> 
> Written for my best friends, who are serious enablers and contributed a great amount to my modern-AU headcanons.

George Luz was always mildly confused as to how he ended up with three roommates instead of the standard one. The school year had started pretty normally; he was assigned room 207 (okay it wass more like a tiny, self-contained apartment, but no-one at Toccoa is complaining because having your own bathroom and not having to share with fifteen other guys? A god-send.) with Don Malarkey from last year, which was a pretty sweet deal since Malarkey was a cool guy with a sense of humour, unlike Liebgott who he had roomed with last year who just disappeared at inopportune moments and scowled a lot.

Anyway, he lugged his stuff up to 207, and everything was cool for approximately three days.

And then, the Terrible Trio struck.

One minute Luz was quite happily minding his own business, thinking up cool an unusual pranks for the year ahead, and the next, rudely interrupted by the sound of  _drilling._ Like, honest-to-god actual drilling, from the next room.

Turns out, it was Malarkey, Skip from 205, and Penkala from 208, drilling together three single beds to form one  _giant triple-decker bunk bed._

“Tha’ fuck?”

“Oh hey Luz,” Malarkey grinned, glancing over at Luz slouched in the doorway, “Didn’t mean to disturb you,”

Muck chuckled, pressing another screw into the wooden bed in front of him. He was doing it wrong, that much Luz could tell, because really you shouldn’t be drilling straight into the wood you should be drilling on an angle to make sure it’s secure but  _whatever_  it’s not like Luz had built an entire sound system from scratch last summer or anything.

“How the fuck did you get this in here?” He asked, looking over into the kitchenette where a precariously balanced pile of wood sat, barring the fridge from use.

“Maaaagic,” Penkala waved his hands across his face, wiggling his fingers in the process.

“You’re right,” Luz shook his head, “I probably don’t want to know. Need a hand?”

Malarkey threw him a screwdriver (not that Luz knew what he was expected to  _do_ with said screwdriver) and turned back to holding one bed onto the other as Muck returned to drilling in the wrong place. Luz shrugged, gripped the screwdriver between his teeth, and moved forward to help Malarkey hold the bed in place.

Well, if it was all going to go sideways he at least wanted to be around to see it.

* * *

“Okay, no, actually I really  _do_ want to know how you got this in here. Might be useful information for smuggling in contraband in the future.”

Muck was in the risky position of standing on the bottom bunk, attempting to secure the top bunk to the second with the drill cord wrapped around his arm to the shoulder and three nails sticking out of his mouth. He mumbled something incoherent and jerked his elbow towards Malarkey.

Malarkey seemed to pick up right where the mumbling had left off with, “And then we just walked it from the elevator to the room.”

“Because that answered my question.” Luz grumbled, releasing the bed he was still holding in place as Muck finished up drilling.

“Looking good boys,” Penkala congratulated from the doorway, where he had a red vine dangling from his lips. No-one had registered that he had disappeared sometime during their project, but if he had returned with red vines then no-one really cared all that much.

“I know I am, Penk, thank you,” Luz grinned, snatching the dangling red vine from his mouth and taking a generous bite out of it, “So how come I suddenly got stuck with you lot instead of just Malark?”

Muck shrugged, climbing down from the top bunk, “I was rooming with Cobb and he’s a class-A jerk,”

“And I was stuck with Webster and  _oh my god_  all he does is read. It’s so boring.”

“Nix signed off on it,” Malarkey supplied, gathering the drill and left over nails in his arms. Luz snorted, moving out into the kitchenette to give them some space to clear up.

“How drunk was he?”

“Very. Winters is gonna have a field day with this one, but all the paperwork is signed so he can’t really move us back.”

“Cool. Want takeout for dinner?” Luz asked, looking at the old chrome clock hanging above the apartment door - only four in afternoon.

There was a brief chorus of agreement before the Trio’s door slammed shut, and Luz figured he should make himself scarce for a while, because if they were testing the durability of a triple bunk bed, something was bound to go wrong and Luz didn’t want to have to rescue them today.

He wondered how Perconte was getting on with his new roomie.

* * *

Three hours later, Luz returned to his room, a deeply unhappy Perconte in tow, and five boxes of pizza from Papa Johns. He figured that would please his roomies.

They found Malarkey, Muck and Penkala crammed onto one of the couches, arms and legs all over the sides and each other.

Luz had sometimes wondered about the nature of their relationship, but he’d never quite got around to asking about it. Maybe at Toye and Guarnere’s annual ‘Welcome Back To This Hellhole’ party on Saturday. When they were suitably liquored up.

Anyway, they seemed to be watching  _Game Of Thrones_  on the huge flatscreen that Penkala had brought with him this year with fascination. The flatscreen was great because they were the only apartment in the building that had such a big TV which made them the go-to room for all sports fixtures, film nights and most importantly (to Luz) the  _Eurovision Song Contest_.

“So he’s screwing his  _sister_?” Malarkey was alarmed, apparently.

“Look it’s fucking  _Game Of Thrones_  okay? Everyone is fucking everyone.”

“Kind of like Easy Block, then.”

“Have you been to Fox Block? Now everyone really  _is_  fucking everyone there,” Luz chuckled and deposited the pizza in the kitchen, “Alright boys come and get it. Oh and Perco is here for dinner because he got stuck with Liebgott this year.”

The Trio gave a chorus of sympathetic ‘ooh’s and patted a glum-looking Perconte on the back as they passed him to get pizza. They each grabbed an entire box and retreated back to the couch, Muck jumping the back of it to claim the middle spot, and Penkala throwing himself down on top of Muck in response, eliciting a round of good-natured protests from Malarkey about wanting to be in the middle.

Luz took his own box and lounged out on the second couch, immediately munching down on the cheesy goodness.

“Perco, take a seat, man. Mi casa es su casa.”

Perconte grabbed his pizza and found a space on the floor in front of Luz’s couch to occupy for the time. They watched  _Game Of Thrones_  in silence while they finished their food, and everything was very relaxed, which Luz was enjoying while it lasted because rooming with these clowns was going to be an exercise in how long he could go without sleep and how much trouble he could get in before christmas break. Almost an hour later, Penkala had fallen asleep propped up on Muck’s shoulder. Malarkey had pulled out his phone and was taking pictures of him while Muck drew obscene images on his face with a magic marker that he had procured from somewhere.

“Dude. Do you hear that?” Perconte nudged Luz’s foot with his elbow.

“The giggling of two maniacs? Of course, I  _am_  sat opposite them,” Luz wasn’t paying all that much attention, since he had pulled out his laptop and was surfing through the more questionable (but interesting) parts of the internet.

“No, no, it’s coming from next door,” He picked up the remote and muted the sound of dragons and sword fights, and then threw it at Muck - missing by a mile and hitting Penkala on the temple.

“Ahh, jesus fuck what are you  _doing?”_  Penkala sprung awake, knocking Muck back and sending him sprawling onto the floor with a flourish of arms and hands.

“Christ almighty,” Muck moaned as he rolled over onto his front and rubbed his tail bone to soothe the pain.

“SHUT IT!”

And in the silence of 207, they all realised that there was, indeed, a  _strange_ noise coming from from 208. One by one, Perconte, Luz, Muck, Malarkey and Penkala’s eyes widened.

“What the  _fuck,_ ” Luz hissed, edging closer to the wall between 207 and 208 with baby steps.

The noises were faint, but definite, in the fact that is was definitely the sound of someone having sex. Apparently really, really  _good_ sex, if all of the ‘ _fuck’s_  and ‘ _harder_ ’s and ‘ _oh god_ ’s were anything to go by.

“Jesus H. Christ, Web’s got a girl in there!” Luz was impressed. Girls were not allowed in the dorms, so this was quite a feat of either genius or stupidity - genius because how he got a girl past Winters and Nixon across the hall would require nothing short of  _Mission Impossible_  and stupidity because both Winters and Nixon seemed to have Girl Sensors in that if there was a girl in the dorms, they probably knew about it already (they had caught Kitty Grogan in Harry’s room several times last year even though no-one else had any inkling), and the penalty for breaking the No Girls rule was a week of detention, running Currahee (an over-sized, back-breaking hill at the far edge of the school grounds with a flag on top) twice in a row  _and_ kitchen duty with Chef Sobel every lunchtime for a month.

Seriously, Toccoa didn’t want girls in their dorms. Ever. And no-one wanted kitchen duty with Sobel, so the No Girls rule was usually respected as much as possible.

“Huh. Wonder how he did that,” Muck started, still lying face-down in the centre of the floor. Malarkey gently poked his butt with the tip of his toes.

“Probably ‘maaaagic’,” He said, imitating Penkala by waving his hands in front of his face. Penkala snorted at the imitation and proceeded to try to show him how it was done  _properly_.

“No, no, look, you put your hands like  _this_ , and then move them like  _that,_ ” He demonstrated by manipulating Malarkey’s hands into the right position and then enacting the movement himself.

Luz sucked at his teeth, ignoring his weird roommates. He was sat up against the wall, and he could just about hear the events of next door over the commotion in his own room. Web might have got her in via the fire escape… but then, no, because that was on the other side of the building by Winters and Nixon’s room. Could have been the stairs at the far end of the hall, but those were linked to the fire alarms and only opened in the case of an actual fire or fire drill. The  _only_ way he could have got her in would be through the front doors and into the elevator. Easy Block was locked down tight - one way in, one way out. It would probably take a zombie apocalypse for anything to get into the building unnoticed.

“I know that look, Luz. What are you planning?” Perconte had sidled over, and was now leaning over the arm of the couch with a questioning look.

“Think I’d make a good detective, Perco?”

With a raised eyebrow, Perconte leaned back slowly and shook his head in disbelief.

* * *

Luz made an  _awful_  detective. Sure, he was great at procuring Easy Block gossip (not as good as Toye and Guarnere, but still very good), but being an actual detective was something he could definitely cross off his list of potential jobs.

Muck was the only one in 207 when he left on his mission, since Malarkey and Penkala had gone ‘grocery shopping’ (to which Luz had asked  _why?_  and never got an answer). Muck waved him off with a, “Go do your thing,  _Veronica Mars_ ,” and disappeared into his room to get started on some trig homework.

Webster was not currently occupying room 208, and Luz knew this because he had seen the fight that he and Liebgott had just before lunch that earned them both detention after classes. The two of them were always throwing very aggressive, very public fights (though he had only ever seen Liebgott actually swing for Webster once, over a year ago, and it had never happened again) about god knows what, so they were usually shoved into detention together - which was probably stupidest idea Luz had ever heard of because keeping them together in a confined space for longer than necessary was unlikely to end well.

Regardless, Luz wasn’t paying all that much attention to being stealthy while snooping through Webster’s room; he accidentally knocked over an open packet of cereal that had been left open with his elbow, and tripped over an oddly placed end table. But nothing looked particularly out of place to him. Not that he had necessarily expected any incriminating evidence to be out in the open, because that would be dumb.

Moving into one of the bedrooms, Luz looked around at the empty room and realised that this would have been Penkala’s room if he’d tried to make friends with Webster instead of just invading 207. There was still the standard Toccoa-issue furniture - a double bed, a wardrobe, desk and bedside cabinet, but there was no warmth because no-one was living there. Luz wondered what it was like for Webster, living alone in the mini-apartment

Very suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and Luz knew something was wrong - footsteps just outside of the door, and hushed conversation. Then, the door was opening all too quickly, and Luz quite literally dived to the floor and army-crawled underneath the bed, praying to every God he could think of that he wouldn’t get caught by Webster.

What  _was_ most interesting though, was that Webster was not alone when he came through the door - Luz could just see another pair of shoes, roughed up combat boots loosely laced that looked strangely familiar.

The door slammed behind the pair, and Luz watched as Combat Boots was pushing Webster up against the door. Neither said anything, and Luz was wondering why until he realised that he was hearing the rathe unmistakeable sounds of heavy kissing, punctuated by desperate moaning.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Webster moaned into the mouth of his partner. It was breathy, so comfortable-sounding that Luz wondered how long this tryst had been going for.

“Where?” Was the amused reply, and Luz could practically hear the smirk. And that was the kicker - he knew that voice, he knew the face that smirk belonged to, and holy hell what was Webster doing making out with Liebgott? They  _hated_ each other. They had public fights and talked shit about each other to literally anyone who would listen, and yet here they were, very clearly about to get it on. With Luz in the room.

“Spare room,” Webster pushed back and suddenly his canvas shoes were in front of Liebgott’s combat boots and walking quickly to the room Luz was hiding in.

 _Oh God, no,_  Luz tried to shuffle himself further up to the wall to avoid being seen, simultaneously trying to nudge his phone out of his jeans pocket. He fumbled with the touchscreen, sending a text to the only person he knew was in the vicinity that might, just  _might_ , be able to do something to help him.

**S.O.S. STUCK UNDER WEBS BED AND HE'S ABOUT TO GET IT ON PLEASE SAVE ME**

Muck took a goddamn long time to reply. By the time Luz received a reply, Webster and Liebgott had already made it to the bed and all Luz could make out of their activities was that both had lost their shirts, which were now lying on the floor beside the bed. Luz was staring at the fabric, eyes wide, totally terrified because it definitely sounded like someone was fumbling with someone’s belt and there was an increase in the sound of kissing, like one of them was definitely getting desperate and all of this made Luz very uncomfortable. Not because he was opposed to sex or anything, but because this was  _Webster_  and  _Liebgott_  and oh man, this was all wrong and it messed with all the rules of the universe as Luz knew them.

**Rescue is on the way. ETA 30 seconds.**

_What the fuck, Muck?_  Luz stared at his screen for a few seconds, trying to block out the scenario playing out around him. Someone’s jeans were on the floor now.

Just as Muck foretold, rescue came approximately thirty seconds later when the fire alarm sounded, ringing loudly all across the building, and if Luz was hearing correctly, it had been triggered in all nine dorms.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Liebgott groaned, the bed shifting uncertainly above Luz. Webster made a pitiful whining noise.

A hand reached down and snatched the discarded clothes off the floor.

 _Hurry up,_  Luz prayed, squeezing his eyes closed.

“You go first, I’ll wait a few seconds and follow.”

“Sure.”

Very quickly, Webster left the room, but not before a lingering kiss and a deep sigh. Luz rolled his eyes and waited for Liebgott to move, the fire alarm still ringing in the background. A few seconds later, Liebgott pushed himself off of the bed and moved out, shutting the door behind him.

Luz breathed a sigh of relief and shuffled out from under the bed, ready to make his way to join the rest of Easy and Fox (who’s dorms faced theirs) out in the yard.

* * *

“So who was it?” Muck whispered to him as they lined up for head count. Winters had a sheet of paper with the room numbers and students names listed, and was going down the line ticking people off. He had some trouble when he got to 205, where he clearly had Cobb and Muck’s name on the list, but Muck was stood down the line with the rest of 207 - Malarkey and Penkala had apparently returned just as the fire alarm went off and were stood with bags of groceries, complaining that the milk was going to curdle in the Georgia heat. Cobb was loudly explaining the rooming situation to Winters, and he didn’t look too happy with the new arrangement. Winters shot Nixon a look that very clearly said ‘we  _will_  be talking about this later’, and Luz internally grimaced. Winters liked his dorm system, and if Nixon had fucked it up there was going to be a bit of tension for a while.

“None of your business.” Luz hissed back. As much as the end result of his investigation had been surprising, and as much as he would have loved to turn it into gossip and tell everyone, he was definitely not in the business of dragging people out of the closet. Even if Liebgott was a jerk and Webster was a giant nerd, clearly they didn’t want anyone to know, so Luz was going to keep the secret until they both grew up and realised that it really wasn’t that big of a deal.

“I bet I can guess. It’s that Wendy from the girls school, right?” Muck carried on.

“You’ll never guess. Believe me.” Luz smiled, glancing down the line to Webster standing alone and slightly off from the rest of them.

Yeah, Muck was never going to guess  _this_  plot twist.


	2. The One With The Party and The Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Toye throw a welcome back party, Babe can't hold his alcohol, and there is some truly terribly translated German.

“Here Babe, hold this would ya?” Bill Guarnere was perched atop a comically constructed series of objects - the long wooden television stand, an end table flipped on it’s side and finally a small step ladder. And it wasn’t that Bill was necessarily short - no, he was just not tall enough to reach adequate banner-hanging height on the wall.

And Babe Heffron was not either, but Bill would be damned if he let the kid climb his crazy construction and potentially break his damn leg falling off.

“Babe are you listening to me?”

Babe was not, in fact, listening to him. He was busy worrying about his hands, cracking his knuckles again and again and staring into the dead space between the couch and the floor.

“Goddamn it Babe, quit worrying. It’s just a party.”

Babe had snapped out of his reverie and was now instead glaring miserably at Bill. He huffed and said, “It’s my  _first_  party, Bill. What if no-one likes me?”

“Are you really fuckin’ worried about that? Christ Babe,” Bill climbed down the pile and started shifting stuff to the other side of the television stand so he could pin up the other side, “So what if none of them like ya? You still got me and Joe. And that skinny kid you’re roomin’ with.”

Babe gave a noncommittal  _hmm_  and followed Bill to hand him the other end of the banner.

When it was finally pinned up, Babe could see that it read  **WELCOME ~~HOME~~ BACK TO THIS SHITHOLE _._** Either Bill or Joe had crossed out the ‘home’ portion and replaced it with their own specific brand of loving deprecation. They didn’t really hate Toccoa; after all, Bill was the one that had convinced Babe to apply when he got kicked out of his catholic high school back in Philly. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t at least like it a little bit.

“Nice,” Babe smiled, looking around the otherwise undecorated dorm, “Any other stuff to go up?”

“Nah, just the banner. One of the boys will yank it down during the night anyways.” Bill then waved him off as Babe tried to help him down from the precariously balanced pile of  _stuff_.

“Alright. Well I’m just gonna go and…”

“Get ready, yeah yeah okay Babe, you been saying that for three hours already and all you do is sit back down and stare at walls,” Grasping his shoulders firmly, Bill steered Babe towards the door, intent on forcing him out of the room, as Babe had been planning on leaving for hours, “Now go put on that green shirt your ma gave you for your birthday and be back here in an hour to get shitfaced.”

“It’s not  _green_  it’s like… olive.” Babe mumbled lamely, now standing outside of the dorm and staring at the floor.

“It’s fuckin’ green.” Bill muttered, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

By the time Babe made it back to Bill and Joe’s dorm room - which was literally the one next to Babe’s own so realistically he didn’t exactly have to go far - he was very late and the music was already making the floor shake. And if he wasn’t mistaken, the noise vibrating the floor was Katy Perry’s  _Last Friday Night_ which, while fitting for a Friday night party, it made Babe more than a little apprehensive. He’d already heard about last year’s party being crashed by Chef Sobel and a significant amount of cows in the courtyard.

_But whatever_ , he thought as he grasped the handle for room 203 and eased his way in. And really, he had to push his way in because there was already someone on the floor on the other side of the door and Babe didn’t know who it was when he poked his head around and tried to slide his body through the gap but he could see a mess of dark hair and some truly astounding cheekbones and the person seemed to be reciting the first chapter of  _To Kill A Mockingbird_ entirely from memory while another dark-haired boy sat next to him scowling and occasionally sighing melodramatically. He held tightly to a bottle of black liquid and chugged from it every few minutes with an expression of pure boredom.

Babe wondered exactly how late he was, and was answered almost immediately by Bill yelling from the kitchenette, “BABE? YOU’RE FUCKIN’ LATE, KID. GET OVER HERE.”

Immediately Babe felt self-conscious - the dorm was packed as close as it could get and he couldn’t go three steps without nearly standing on someone or bumping into another body, but he eventually got himself to where Bill and Joe were stood together drinking from a suspiciously green bottle that looked to have a label written in Polish. He grinned at them.

“Hey, what-“ Babe’s grin faded ever so slowly as his attention was diverted to the figure with messy hair so black it was almost blue under the fluorescent lights in the corner of the kitchenette, sitting atop the counter and letting his long legs kick aimlessly out from the cupboards. He seemed to be engaged in quiet conversation with another boy, but briefly looked over to Babe, a look of confusion passing across his face before the corner of his mouth quirked up into half of a half-smile and he looked away again. Babe felt like he was floating at this point.

“Babe? I don’t think he’s breathing.” Joe Toye was trying to get his attention back with little to no luck as Babe flat-out ignored him.

“ _Takemetochurch-dot-mp3_ ,” Babe exhaled, still staring in the general direction of Eugene Roe.

“Joe, you owe me ten bucks.” Bill held out his palm as Joe rummaged around in his pocket for the ten dollar note he knew he’d left there this morning because deep down, he knew that putting money on who Babe Heffron would fall in love with at first sight was a bet he could never win. Bill had just known Babe too long - of course, Joe’s bet of Speirs was admittedly pretty left-field and unlikely to actually happen. Sure Speirs was good-looking, but he was also, in literally everyone’s opinion, fucking  _terrifying._  Probably too terrifying for Babe in the long run.

But Eugene Roe, the only one in an over-crowded room that Babe had literally lost his breath over, as Bill had bet, was the obvious spot-on choice. Quiet, pretty self contained and not the biggest talker - not that he didn’t have any friends, anyone in Easy Block would be quick enough to say he was their friend - Roe had a certain quality to him that people instantly gravitated towards.

“You  _bet_  on me?” Babe hissed in disbelief, instantly grabbing for the money that was changing hands. Bill was quicker than Babe thought and had the cash in his pocket almost before Babe had even closed his fist.

“Hey cool it Babe. Have some of this and go talk to him,” Shoving the mysterious green bottle into Babe’s hands, Bill backed out of the kitchenette to survey his party kingdom.

Babe, never exactly one to say no to free alcohol - and he was pretty sure that would come back to bite him in the ass someday - gulped down two mouthfuls of the suspicious liquid.

And promptly gagged, coughed and retched.

“Thanks a fuckin’ lot, Bill,” He spluttered, handing the bottle back to a laughing Joe Toye, “Yeah fuck you too, Joe.”

* * *

The party had gotten into full swing quicker than it had last year, and whether that was because George Luz had switched up the playlist from ‘literally no-one but me knows this Eurovision crap’ to ‘this shit was in the charts for weeks there is no-one in the english-speaking world that  _doesn’t_  know  _Let It Go_  from _Frozen_ ’ or because Harry Welsh had started a game of Ring Of Fire approximately three minutes after entering the room and that game was  _lethal_ when someone found the jacks and instituted the ‘when you drink, the person opposite you drinks’ rule, or the rule prohibiting swearing. This usually led to near-constant drinking.

On one of the couches, Don Malarkey, Skip Muck and Alex Penkala had crammed up to one end to let Shifty Powers join in with their on-going game of _Call Of Duty_ , and were quietly plying him with more and more alcohol as he was achieving higher scores than they had ever seen, even drunk. Shifty’s roomie, Floyd Talbert, was watching them warily from the floor next to the couch. As designated Sober Sister of all parties (he didn’t drink, for no reason other than he didn’t particularly like the feeling of being drunk), Tab was usually flitting around, making sure everyone had water or snacks and generally being very sober in the face of extreme drunkenness, so his dedication to ensuring that Shifty didn’t up and vomit everywhere was impressive, if not a little confusing.

“Shift, how are you doing this?” Malarkey griped, drinking from a red plastic cup full of some odd rum concoction that Muck had ‘invented’ (it was awful, but Malarkey wasn’t about to tell Muck that).

“Fuck that was awesooooome, do it again!” Muck half-cheered, half-slurred whilst leaning into Malarkey next him and watching Shifty blow up an enemy that none of his team mates had even seen yet. Shifty just grinned and mashed buttons repeatedly, somehow taking down more on-screen enemies in thirty seconds than Penkala - who had the other controller - had in thirty minutes.

“Damn it, Shifty,” He hissed under his breath, slamming the controller into Muck’s lap, “Here, you play against him.”

“Ah fuck, I need that part of my body!” Muck whined, doubling up on himself to protect his crotch. Malarkey patted him on the head in sympathy and shook his head at Penkala, laughing slightly.

“Yeah Alex, he needs that part!”

George Luz had been watching this exchange with interest from the small space between the kitchen and the living room that had become an impromptu dance floor, where he had been bopping along happily to  _Mr Brightside_ , thinking about how this was the perfect time to question his roomies on their very odd relationship.

“Hold this,” Luz said, shoving his drink into the hands of Perconte and shimmying towards the couch. Luz ungracefully dropped to the floor in front of them, crossed his legs beneath him and folded his hands under his chin.

“So,” He began, a cheeky smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “How’s it going boys?”

Malarkey raised an eyebrow at him and said nothing, Muck was too busy craning his neck to see over the top of Luz’s head to answer and Penkala gave him a withering look, like he knew what was about to happen next.

“Alright, come on, you’ve been dying to ask for a week now,”

“Why, my dear Penkala, I have  _no_  idea what you’re talking about,”

“You want to ask about our relationship,” Malarkey clarified, leaning forward with skinny elbows on his knees.

Luz hummed, pretending to think it over for a few seconds, then grinned spectacularly, “Well, if you’re  _offering_  the information…”

Penkala rolled his eyes and looked towards Malarkey, shrugged once, took a long drink straight from the bottle of rum the three had been sharing (liberally, and with Shifty too), and passed it off to Muck.

“It’s pretty simple. We’re all in a relationship. Together.”

“Yeah,” Luz said slowly, attention momentarily redirected to the far wall where Webster and Liebgott were, what sounded like, arguing in german. Well at the very least, Liebgott was talking to him furiously in german and Webster was trying to keep up rebuttals in between reciting the first chapter of  _The Communist Manifesto._

“Yeah. Boyfriends. Us. Really gay.”

Muck perked up at this, “Hello?” Malarkey patted his head again.

“Yes, very gay,”

“Dat me,” A drunk smile slid across Muck’s face as he went back to losing dramatically to Shifty.

“How exactly does that work?” Luz asked, now rather intrigued by this idea.

“Like any other relationship,” Penkala shrugged, “Just with three of us instead of two.”

“But I thought Muck had a girlfriend last year,”

“He did. He keeps saying he’s really gay but he’s..." He took a quick look at Muck still mashing the controller, "Pan?”

“And you?”

“Well I  _am_  really gay,” Penkala smirked, leaning back into the couch like the conversation was over and letting Muck discard the controller into his lap and then curl up next to him.

Shifty put down his controller at the same time and stood up unsteadily, his arms flying out to the sides to keep himself upright. Within a heartbeat, Tab had materialised next to him and was in the business of holding his waist with one hand to stop him falling, a look of deep concentration on his face as he used his other hand to tilt Shifty’s face towards his to assess how drunk he really was.

Doing his best to keep the conversation going, Luz turned back to the trio, “What about you, Malark?”

Malarkey slid along the couch to where Shifty had been sitting and shrugged, kicking his legs up over the arm rest and leaning back so he was effectively lying on Muck.

“Haven’t given it much thought.” He answered, closing his eyes.

“Nice, nice,” Luz murmured, deciding it was best leave it at that. Besides, Luz figured that this party needed a bit more…  _chaos_. Which could, in theory, come from Webster and Liebgott having an argument in german.

* * *

“ _Du bist ein arschloch. Ficken Harvard- möchtegern-_ ” Liebgott hissed, glaring at Webster. They’d been arguing about nothing for almost forty minutes as Webster got more and more drunk on Liebgott’s Eristoff and recited more and more first chapters from books Liebgott had never even heard of. Who the fuck knows what  _The Communist Manifesto_  is? Who even  _cares_?

Webster’s mouth dropped open mid-sentence.

“ _Das ist… gemein…_ ” He tried. It sounded right in his head. It was probably right.

Liebgott snorted, “ _Das war so lahm. Wo hast du Deutsch lernen?_ ” He then switched back to English, “Stop talking, Web. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“I  _think_  that’s supposed to go… hmm… wait… oh, it’s supposed to go ‘stop thinking or you might hurt yourself’,” Webster slurred, swaying dangerously close to Liebgott as he lurched against the wall he was currently using as a support system for remaining sat upright. By this point Liebgott was drinking continuously to forget that the boy next to him was even there, something which Luz had already clocked and intended to take full advantage of as he sat down on Webster’s left.

“Hey guys, having fun?” He grinned, patting Webster on the knee. The look Liebgott gave him was made entirely from repressed rage and a deep sense of boredom.

“Yes George, we are having  _so much fun._ ” He deadpanned in reply.

“Hey I got another book for you to do, Web,” Webster’s eyes lit up.

“Don’t encourage him. Please.”

“How about  _Les Miserables_ , huh? You read that one, Web?”

“Yesssssss,” Webster exhaled, a look of pure delight crossing his face as he lurched into the first chapter of the longest book ever. Liebgott rubbed his eyes with his knuckles in exasperation.

“I’m going to kill you. Webster,  _stop,_ ” Liebgott slammed the bottle to the ground turned ninety degrees to his right, seized Webster by the shoulders and shook him, “ _Ficken aufhören zu reden, du Idiot!_ ”

For about three seconds, Webster shut his mouth. And then he opened it again, but no sound came out. Open, closed, open, closed, he looked somewhat like a drunk goldfish for a good thirty seconds before, “ _Liebling._ ”

Liebgott looked like he had been physically slapped. Luz had no idea what Webster had said to him, but his body relaxed slightly just as he let go of Webster’s shoulders and very suddenly Liebgott looked a lot softer, a lot more like sixteen.

“ _Du hast mich nie angerufen, dass vor._ ”

Luz was pretty sure this was a tender moment for the two of them, and he was silently thanking whatever deity may exist that the music was too loud for other people to hear it, and the party was too crowded for anyone to really be paying attention because he was pretty sure that if they were alone they would have jumped each other already.

Sadly, the moment was interrupted by Chuck Grant rushing past them to get to the bathroom. He clumsily tripped over Webster’s outstretched legs, and flew to the bathroom floor before heaving himself up and vomiting into the porcelain toilet.

“ _Verdammte scheiße_ ,”

Webster had gone back to reciting  _Les Miserables_ , blissfully unaware that his and Liebgott’s moment had passed and Liebgott was beginning to stand up.

“Watch him for me.” He said, gesturing with his head to Webster, now sprawled on his back along the wall. Luz nodded, with pretty much no intention of _actually_  watching Webster.

“Alright Grant, that’s it get it all up,” Luz was unsurprised to hear Lipton’s voice coming from the bathroom, since Lipton looked after  _everyone_ , and was especially good at looking after them while they were drunk. What  _was_ surprising, and on quite a few levels absolutely terrifying, was the looming figure of Speirs, who seemed to be hovering just left of the bathroom door and watching Lipton sooth Grant with such intensity that Luz figured Speirs might be planning on murdering one or both of them in the near future. It was only when Grant finished throwing up whatever alcohol he’d consumed that Lipton looked up from his task and gave Speirs a tight smile that Luz thought that maybe, Speirs was not on the hunt for his next victim at all. Maybe he was just there as moral support (not that Speirs offered much in the way of morality or support, but there’s always a first for everything).

Lipton noticed Luz watching them and nodded at him.

“How’s Webster doing, George?”

“Ehh,” Luz glanced down at Webster. His head was lolling back and his blue eyes were almost rolling out of his skull, “Wasted. He’ll be fine,” Luz gently patted Webster on the cheek, “Won’t you buddy?”

“Luz, where is  _mein Lieb?_ ” Half of his sentence was in English and half in German, which tickled Luz something silly. He chuckled lightly.

“He’ll be right back, buddy. Don’t worry.”

Webster sighed unhappily, and tried to curl his body up like a cat, “ _Ich liebe ihn._ ”

That one confused Luz a little bit, because he was certain he knew what that meant, and that was kind of terrifying. Within the second that Luz had decided that this party wouldn’t be getting it’s chaos from either Webster or Liebgott, there was a deafening crash from somewhere across the room, followed immediately by a string of curse words.

And there was the chaos Luz had been looking for.

* * *

Babe didn’t really know what was going on. His head felt heavy, somewhere in the room there was a bad rendition of  _All Summer Long_ happening (he thought he could hear Bull’s distinct voice leading the others) and along the way he seemed to have lost a shoe.

Which was a problem, because with his remaining shoe still on, his walking took a distinctly unbalanced gait. Vaguely remembering still having both shoes in the kitchen, he made his way there as carefully as he could, despite not having the clearest vision ever. Again, this was a poor decision, because just as he reached the open-plan kitchen, Babe tripped over his lost shoe (he found it, hooray!) and went crashing to the ground. Just as he was falling, the side of his face smashed into the breakfast bar with an almighty  _crack,_ his arm swiped the empty bottles from the counter and they shattered on the tiled floor.

The music  _zzzzzzip_ ed off, apparently magically connected to the occurrence of catastrophic events.

Babe moaned, face-down on the floor. Not that anything that just happened to him necessarily  _hurt_ , because he was so drunk that his pain receptors were predominantly just a little bit ticked by events, but mostly because he was now facing having to stand up again and that sounded like way too much effort to him in that moment.

A string of swearing behind him lead Babe to believe that Bill was on the scene.

“Get up ya idiot! Christ what have you done now?”

“Leave m’ ‘lone Bill,” Babe mumbled, still face down on the floor. A big hand gripped his shoulder and rolled him over onto his back. The collective gasp from the crowd told Babe that something was probably not okay, especially since the next thing he heard was,

“ _DOC!_ ”

Yeah, that wasn’t good. The cry for help sent Babe’s body into a slight panic, and he couldn’t see anything because the fluorescent lights were right above him and so, so bright and everything was just colour and shapes but he was pretty sure that was Bill right above him and suddenly there was someone else, and someone else, and a calming southern accent saying, “Hey Heffron,” and Babe was being picked up under the arms and hauled to his feet.

At least he was standing on his own, and his vision was clearing slightly. He could definitely see Bill and Joe, and there was Winters looking deeply concerned.

“You got this, Eugene?” Winters asked. Babe was slightly dumbfounded for a second because where was Roe?

“I got it,” Ah there he was, literally right next to Babe, pulling on a pair of medical gloves and -  _what was he doing with those?_  Babe’s body stiffened and he tried to lean away from Roe’s hands which were quickly advancing on his face.

“What are you - I’m  _fine_ ,” Babe insisted, waving Roe’s hand away.

“Babe you ain’t fine. Let the doc fix you up,” Bill said, taking a step towards him with one hand outstretched in a peace offering, but Babe was unnerved. What was wrong? He didn’t  _feel_  hurt, but come to think of it, he didn’t feel much of anything outside of blind panic at this point.

“Why? What’s-“ Babe brought one hand up to his face and gingerly touched his cheek, sliding his fingertips down to his nose and then lips, bringing them away slick and red, which was when his blind panic kicked up to ‘hysterics’ and he completely passed out.

Luckily, Roe had the reflexes of a cat and slid his arms around Babe’s back and under his arms just as he started to fall.

“Alright, I got ya,” Roe murmured, holding Babe up against his chest, “He don’t like blood?”

Bill snorted, “Always faints. Funny since he’s always gettin’ in fights back home.”

Roe wasn’t exactly having a  _hard_  time holding Babe up, but he was certainly hoping he would wake up soon because he didn’t really know what to do; the floor was covered in broken glass bottles so putting him down wasn’t the best idea, and just standing there with a fourteen year old kid in his arms was slightly creepy.

“Get his legs,” Roe ordered Bill, who instantly moved in to grab Babe’s legs and lift him up, “Put him on the couch,”

Joe Toye left the kitchen first to clear the way and kick off the current occupiers of the couch.

When Babe was safely nestled on the only-slightly uncomfortable Toccoa-issued couch, Roe gave his next set of orders to Bill and Joe.

“He needs water, and sugar, and I need something to clean him up with,” He looked up and around at everyone else in the room, and said pointedly, “The rest of you all should probably get goin’.”

There were a few nods of agreement; Liebgott and Webster surreptitiously slunk out of the door before everyone else, Liebgott with his arm around a very drunk Webster, supporting the majority of his weight (and Luz covering their exit so no-one saw like the  _good friend_  he was), Malarkey, Muck and Penkala sleepily got up from the second couch and headed for the open door.

A few people groaned in annoyance at the party being cut short, but mostly they realised that Babe’s accident had pretty much killed the mood and besides, it was nearly one in the morning and they were all either exhausted or wasted and going to bed sounded like a fantastic idea.

“Look who’s back,” Roe smiled as he saw Babe’s eyes fluttering open. Babe, once again, had very little idea what was happening. This seemed to be becoming a regular occurrence in his life, and he was not pleased by it.

“Think you could manage some water ‘fore I start fixin’ you up?”

He nodded, so lightly that he wasn’t even sure Roe had seen it until there was a glass of water with a silly straw sticking out of it right in front of his face. The silliness of the straw was that it’s shape made it look like a dick, and Babe blushed as Roe fed the straw into his parted lips. He grimaced when the metallic taste of blood hit his tongue, but settled back into the pillow his head was resting on when Roe pulled the straw away.

“What’s the damage, doc?” He tried to smile, but  _there_  was the pain that his body had rejected earlier, and he ended up somewhere between a smile and scowl.

“Won’t know ‘till I clean you up,” Roe was dabbing at his face with a wet towel, “You got a busted lip though.”

With Roe’s hands all up in his face, Babe was having a bit of an issue. The sweater Roe was wearing kept riding up every time he moved forward to wipe blood away and Babe kept getting glances of the smooth skin of his hips, he had to keep squeezing his eyes shut to stop himself from looking and being _obvious_  about it. But Roe was gentle, and when he’d finished cleaning up the blood he  _hmm_ ’d and softly said that Babe didn’t need stitches like he thought, but he’d have a nasty black eye in the morning and probably some swelling.

“Alcohol made your blood thin out that’s why there was so much,”

Babe was feeling tired, whether from the bump to the head or the mystery green liquid he didn’t know, but he was ready for a nap when he heard Bill’s disembodied voice complaining, “Dammit Babe you were like a bloody fountain. Got blood all over the kitchen!”

“I’m real sorry, Bill,” Babe mumbled, slowly slipping into sleep.

“All over my sweater too - hey, no, no, don’t sleep yet you might ‘ave a concussion,” Roe had his hands on either side of Babe’s face and it wasn’t until Babe opened his eyes again that he realised Roe’s face was inches from his own and searching his eyes, “You got a headache?”

Babe nodded.

“Feel like you’re gon’ be sick?”

Babe shook his head.

“Dizzy or ringin’ in your ears?”

Babe shook his head again and stared at Roe. Roe held up three fingers, “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

“Three,” Babe sighed and closed his eyes again.

“Aight, get some sleep Heffron,” Roe leaned back and motioned to stand up, but Babe made the dizzy, sleepy decision to reach out and grab for his wrist.

“Babe,” He mumbled.

“Ay?”

“M’ name. ’S Babe.”

“Sleep, Heffron.” Babe thought that he could hear a smile in Roe’s voice, but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t want to open his eyes and check because if he _wasn’t_  smiling that would be a let down and if he  _was_  smiling Babe was terrified he might fall in love just enough to tip him over the edge.

So he kept his eyes closed and listened to Roe talk to Bill about him quietly somewhere far away as his body relaxed and he slipped away into sleep.

* * *

“Jus’ keep an eye on him through the night. He should be fine in the mornin’,”

“Maybe you should stay too, eh?” Bill smirked, nudging Roe’s arm suggestively with his elbow, “You’re the doc after all.”

Roe seriously considered this for a moment, before giving Bill a look that questioned his sanity. Bill continued to grin the face of Roe’s straight expression.

“I got to check on everyone else,” He said.

Bill shrugged, “Ain’t that Lip’s job? Or Winters?”

Roe pursed his lips, rolled his eyes and headed for the door, but stopped just short to look over his shoulder at Babe sleeping peacefully.

“I’ll…” He paused, weighing his next words carefully, “Be back after.”

Then he left the room, and shut the door behind him carefully and quietly so he didn’t wake Babe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me and the German translation, or the terrible attempt at writing accents because I literally can't but. You know. I tried and therefore no-one can criticise me. 
> 
> (No but really, if you have pointers on this please tell me, I would be eternally grateful.)


	3. The One With The After-Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People slink back to their own rooms and there's drama.

After watching Malarkey, Muck and Penkala basically spoon-feed Shifty rum for almost an hour and then seeing him wander a circuit of the room and get absolutely everyone he talked to confused with someone else (Winters suddenly became Malarkey, he somehow mixed Johnny Martin and Perconte up and Liebgott got pretty pissed off when Shifty mistook him from someone from Dog Block), Floyd Talbert decided that it was probably time to take him back to their dorm room.

“Come on, Shift, let’s get you back,”

Shifty was having none of it at first, initially believing that Tab was someone he didn’t know at all, and then switching it up halfway through, smiling drunkenly, decided that he was talking to one of the freshmen they’d nicknamed Skinny, and allowed Tab to extract him from the party.

“I don’t want to go in,” Shifty slurred as they stood outside of their own dorm room.

“Why not?”

“My roomie… Tab… he might,” He stopped for a second, blushing at whatever thought had just popped into his muddled brain, “He might have someone in there…”

Tab fought back a laugh. He was always making jokes about bringing people back to his room (if only just to see Shifty blush) but he’d never done it, and he didn’t intend to this year. Not when the person he  _really_  wanted to spend the night with - every night, if at all possible - was right in the bedroom next to his already.

“So? You have separate rooms, what difference would that make?” Tab tried. Shifty did not look convinced, and if anything he looked even more drunk than when they left the party. His eyes were slightly glassy, and it was as if he didn’t really see Tab even when he was looking directly at him.

“I just,” He licked his lips tentatively, “I don’t want to hear it.” And he looked away, like he was embarrassed or ashamed of definitely not wanting to hear his roomie having sex. Which is, you know, a thing most people don’t really want to hear.

“Shifty, you know it’s me, right? It’s Tab,” Tab tried again to get Shifty to recognise him, he even stood in front of him and gently lifted his chin so they were back at eye level with each other, but Shifty just kept talking, not listening to Tab at all.

“I can’t, I can’t go in there,”

Tab sighed. It wasn’t working, and he doubted that Shifty would clock that it was him until he sobered up in the morning, so the best course of action would be to just get him to bed and leave him some aspirin and water for the inevitable hangover.

“Come on, let’s just get you in,” He said, twisting the door handle to let them both in.

Shifty reluctantly stumbled into the room, and straight to the couch, almost throwing himself down into the couch on his knees and leaning over the back of the couch so he could still see Tab closing and locking the door behind them, flicking on the corner lamp they had, and turning the bathroom light on just in case Shifty needed to use it in the night while still drunk.

“What’s wrong?” Tab asked, catching Shifty looking extremely upset. He had little frown lines around his mouth and his eyebrows were all knitted together and before Tab knew it -

“ _Ireallylikehimandit’slikehedoesn’tknowIexist,_ ” Shifty wailed, stringing his words together so closely that Tab almost couldn’t understand him under the accent that seemed to have gotten thicker the more the night wore on.

“Huh? Of course I… of course he does. You’re his roomie. You’re on the baseball team together. You’re great friends.” Tab wanted to say more. He wanted to say that of  _course_ he knew that Shifty existed because they’d been friends from the start of freshman year when Tab accidentally ran straight into him and knocked him down and all Shifty had done was blush and smile and tell him it was no problem, that the floor was pretty warm and he was planning on sitting down anyway. Tab was pretty much his from that moment on.

“I don’t want to be his friend like that!” Shifty burst, looking like he was about to start crying and  _god_ , that hurt Tab, but…  _what did he say?_  Tab wasn’t breathing anymore. If it wasn’t for the fact that he could literally hear it, and feel it, he would have said that his heart had completely stopped.

“Oh.  _Oh.”_

“I’m so stupid for even wanting that,” Shifty continued, hanging his head so all Tab could really see of him in the light from the lamp was the crown of his head and his arms crossed on the back the couch, “He’s just so… amazing. He’s so good at baseball, and he has a cute dog and a cute butt… _what_?” His head snapped up to look at Tab, a look of incredible fear at what he’d just said plastered on his face.

Tab fought a smile, then made a mental note not to let Shifty drink so much in the future, If he remembered any of this, even if he misremembered telling it to Skinny, he’d be  _so_ embarrassed. But it was also nice to know that Shifty thought he had a nice butt.

“I think it’s time to go to bed, Shifty,” He said softly, moving forward, intending to help his roomie off the couch and to bed so he could sleep it off.

Shifty nodded his head lightly, thoughtfully, “Yeah… oh no,” He looked horror-stricken, “I’m going to be sick,”

Tab was pretty sure he had never moved so fast as he skidded around the breakfast bar, liberated the washing bowl from the sink, and brought it back just in time for Shifty to throw up the little he’d eaten and the lot he’d drank. Tab closed his eyes briefly, and tried not to think about the sound of retching or the acidic smell, because if he thought about it too long he’d throw up himself and he hadn’t even had anything to drink.

They stayed like that for a while; Shifty leaning over the couch to be sick into a bowl, and Tab holding the bowl and trying to comfort Shifty as best he could. When he was seemingly done, Shifty pushed himself into a standing position and took himself off to his bedroom, then crawled into bed fully clothed.

Tab went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and the aspirin. He thought about trying to get Shifty into pyjamas, but then decided that it was probably crossing a line and it was best to just leave him.

“Alright, you’re alright,” He said, finding Shifty curled into a ball under the covers. He set the glass and pills down, then set himself at the edge of the bed and tucked his roomie in gently.

“Oh no,” Shifty moaned pitifully, seemingly recognising that Tab had been the one with him the entire time.

“Shifty?” Tab tried gently, but all he got in return was Shifty rolling over and pulling the covers over his head in defeat.

“No.”

“Okay, Okay, I’ll just… go. Goodnight.” He left, feeling pretty shit about everything that had just transpired between them - which was nothing other than his first friend at Toccoa telling him that he wanted to be  _more_  than friends, and Tab trying to not take advantage of that revelation.

Well, there wasn’t much he could do in that moment except go to bed himself and hope that it all fixed itself in the morning.

* * *

It didn’t fix itself in the morning. Tab tried for a long time to get Shifty out of his room, but it felt like he had barricaded himself in there with something petty heavy because the door just  _would not budge_.

“Shifty, please open the door,”

There was scuffling on the other side as Tab stood there, attempting to talk him out for the forth time.

“Go. Away.  _Please,_ ” Shifty’s muffled voice carried though the wood door. Tab sighed, lent up against the door and then slid to the floor. There was really only one thing for it now - if he was going to get Shifty out, he might as well go for it and tell Shifty how  _he_  felt.

“I want to tell you something. There’s this kid… this guy that I really like. I think you know him. He’s a shortstop on the baseball team, and he really likes my dog. And my butt, apparently,” He chuckled to himself. He heard something being dragged away from right behind the door and smiled; it was working, so he continued.

“He’s a southern belle and his voice is like goddamn honey and when I see him in the mornings I just want to kiss him because his hair’s a mess but he’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” The door creaked open a sliver, and Tab jumped to his feet. Shifty had opened the door just wide enough that Tab could see half of his face - he was blushing and his hair was sticking up just like it did every morning and Tab knew he wasn’t lying or talking himself into something then. Shifty  _was_  the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

“He wins paintball every time we go because he’s the best shot in the world. He only drinks hot chocolate and when he can’t have that he’ll have water. He watches nature documentaries all the time. Last night he told me he wanted to be more than friends with me, so this morning I’m telling him that I want the same thing.” Tab finished, watching carefully for a reaction, biting his tongue between his teeth. Shifty started a tentative smile, but bit his own lip halfway through.

“Really?” He asked, timid and low in his accent, like he wasn’t sure he was hearing everything Tab was saying.

“Yeah,”

The door opened fully, revealing that Shifty was still in the clothes he’d slept in the night before. Tab moved forward a pace, bringing him right up to the other boy, and he gently pulled him in to his body. They were the same height, but Shifty’s head rested comfortably in his neck.

“I ain’t ever done nothin’ like this before,” He mumbled into Tab’s neck, his arms snaking their own way around his waist as Tab pressed his lips to the side of Shifty’s head.

“We’ll take it slow. Anything you want.”

* * *

Liebgott had been holding Webster up almost all the way down the hall after their surreptitious exit from the party, only to find that when they got back to Webster’s room, he could walk by himself with relative ease, and he was definitely not as drunk as Liebgott thought. Which kind of pissed him off, because he just risked them being caught when he could easily have walked back himself.

“You’re not even fucking drunk,” He grumbled, pushing Webster into the dorm room and out of any potential interruptions.

Webster shrugged, “I was. I’m not now. I wanted to see what you would do.” He defended, and then stumbled over the backpack he’d left by the door. Liebgott snorted in amused annoyance and pushed past to get to the bedroom.

“I’m going to bed,” He supplied, leaving Webster to roll his eyes and trail after him.

“I guess you’re staying then,”

“Do you  _want_  me to go?”

“No.”

Ten minutes later they were both in Webster’s double bed, trying to get as comfortable as possible. This was always a problem for them (it wasn’t like it was the first time they’d shared a bed; Liebgott had crashed the room more times than Webster could count, and all in the two weeks since summer ended) because someone was always too hot, and someone too bony and one of them snored, stole the covers, pushed the other out of the bed.

“Your elbow is in my  _back_ , Joe,”

“ _Gottverdammt,_ ”

Webster moved to keep Liebgott’s elbow out of his back and nearly rolled off the bed, and then really _did_  roll of the bed in surprise when there was rapid-fire knocking from the dorm room door.

“There’s someone at the door.”

“Really? Never would have guessed.” Liebgott deadpanned, getting out of the bed and heading for the door.

“No!” Webster called, gathering himself up from the floor, running in front of Liebgott and pushing him back towards the bedroom with his hands splayed over Liebgott’s bare chest.

“What? You want me to stay in the bedroom like a goddamn  _hooker_?” Liebgott’s voice inched up at the last word and that’s when Webster knew he wasn’t going to like the screaming match they were about to engage in.

“Don’t be difficult! You’re the one that doesn’t want anyone to know about us!”

“And why do you think that is, huh?!”

“I have no idea! I don’t understand why you do  _anything_  you do, because you won’t tell me! We sneak around like… like kids who are doing something wrong. You’re the one treating me like a hooker here! I’m supposed to be your _boyfriend_!”

“Well maybe I don’t want you to be!” Liebgott yelled back, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists at his side, and staring at Webster like he didn’t really know what had just come out of his mouth.

“ _What_?” It came out as little more than a whisper.

“Maybe I don’t want you to be my boyfriend.” Liebgott repeated, sounding much less sure of himself, but still looking every inch as furious as when he first spat those words out.

Webster’s heart was in his throat. He thought maybe he was going to be sick, or he was going to faint, and Liebgott was watching him, red faced from screaming and full of hate, and Webster had never,  _never_  seen him like this before, not even during the first real fight they had in freshman year when they barely knew each other and Liebgott had tried to hit him.

This  _scared_  him, and not in a ‘ _he’s going to hurt me_ ’ way (because Joe couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ ), but in an ‘ _I’m going to lose him_ ’ way, and Webster had to make a decision on where he was going next without listening to the fear in his stomach or the hurt in his heart.

“Fine,” He took a shuddering breath, unsure even then that his head was telling him the right thing, “Fine, we’re done. Get the fuck out.” Webster closed his mouth and tried not to look as scared as he felt.

Liebgott stared at him, part anger, part confusion and part ‘fucking make me’ until he turned around, grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor and stormed from the dorm room, slamming the door behind him whilst muttering, “ _Fick dick_ ,” like this was anything but his own fault.

* * *

Roe had had an interesting time checking on the rest of the dorm before returning to Bill and Joe’s room. All of the third floor was quiet, barring his own room where Spina had apparently settled in to watch late-night re-runs of _24 Hours In A &E._ He laughed when Roe told him he was going to sleep in 203 to keep an eye on Heffron, made a joke about Heffron being underage, and went back to his show.

Roe rolled his eyes and left to check on the second floor, forgetting that he had gone in to get a clean sweater since his was still spotted with Babe’s blood.

He skipped over Winters and Nixon’s dorm because he knew they’d both already be asleep, so he knocked on Webster’s door since he distinctly remembered him being flat-out drunk and arguing with Liegbott. There was no immediate answer, and Roe thought he might be asleep before he heard yelling from inside and decided that it might be best to leave Webster and whoever he was yelling at well alone.

There was no answer from any of the other rooms aside from Skinny sticking his head out of 204 just as Roe was going back into 203 and asking after Babe.

“He’ll be fine in the mornin’,” Roe nodded, letting himself back into the dorm and leaving the door unlocked in case anyone needed him during the night (which was usually Winters’ or Lipton’s job, but people seemed to always be knocking on his door with minor injuries or problems).

Babe was still dozing when Roe started setting up the other couch - Bill had left him a pillow and a blanket - but opened his eyes a little when the noise of Roe moving about disturbed him. Roe caught the dizzy smile Babe had going on, but said nothing and let him fall asleep again before trying to get some sleep himself.

Sometime later - Roe didn’t know how long - he was nudged awake. Babe was leaning over the corner of the couch and poking Roe in the shoulder.

“Huh?”

“M’ gon be sick, Gene,” Babe mumbled lamely. Roe led there for a few seconds longer, trying to work out when exactly his life had descended into the chaos of looking after a dorm of alchohol-sick teenagers, and having a freshman nudge him awake in the middle of the night to be sick.

“Okay,” He sighed, getting up to find the washbowl because there was pretty much no way Babe was making it to the bathroom to throw up, “Here,”

Babe had sat himself up and was clutching his head in pain as Roe sat down on the other side of him and held the bowl as Babe threw up six times before leaning back and mumbling that he felt better. Roe left him sat there while he cleaned up, but came back when Babe started to doze off again, worried that the vomiting might mean that he  _did_  have a concussion after all.

“Heffron, c’mon stay awake,” Babe’s head lolled back slightly, but he was still awake, “Do you remember what happened tonight?”

“Got drunk,” He was sleepy, Roe could see that, but he was alert enough to register the questions, “Bashed my head on the breakfast bar. That  _hurt._ ” Babe yawned, and dragged the blanket up over his shoulders.

“Okay, it’s okay, look at me,” Roe nudged him lightly with his elbow and Babe lifted his face up slightly. Roe was holding up two fingers this time, “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

Babe’s eyes focused quickly on Roe’s slender hand, “Two. Can I sleep now?”

And Babe pulled his feet up onto the couch, leaning up against Roe and resting his head on his shoulder.

“Yeah, you can sleep now,” Roe said quietly, gently pulling the blanket up more and letting Babe fall asleep on him. He reasoned that the weird feeling he had in the pit of his stomach was a sense of having done something good, of being useful and kind, but he knew somewhere behind all of that, he was feeling something else about the whole situation. He worried about it for a while, sat in the dark with Babe’s regulated breathing encouraging his to match, eventually succumbing and falling asleep with his cheek resting against the top of Babe’s head.

* * *

When Babe woke up in the morning, light filtering in from somewhere or other that he couldn’t quite figure out, he found himself disoriented and dazed once again. He was warm, too, as if he was sharing body heat with - oh,  _oh_  he  _was._

Roe had repositioned himself during the night, and had one arm around Babe’s shoulders, keeping him pressed up against Roe’s soft (if blood-stained) cream sweater. Which, you know, Babe didn’t have too much of a problem with, except now his face was flushing and he was very, very close to Roe and everything was a bit of a mess so he squeaked and wriggled his way out from the embrace, booking it straight for the door in a wobbly, hungover line.

Roe appeared undisturbed by the sudden change, as he mostly just fell onto his back and continued to sleep.

Babe looked back briefly, and there was Bill leaning ever-so-casually up against the door frame of his bedroom with a teasing smirk, “Have a good night, Babe?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively and Babe could have smacked him.

“Fuck off,” Babe mumbled, wishing he had as a good a night as Bill was implying, and left the dorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's never written Shifty/Tab before and has no idea what they're doing! That's right, it's me.
> 
> Guess who changes plot points halfway through writing! Also me, yaaaaas!


	4. The One Where Lipton's Life Almost Becomes A Taylor Swift Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lipton's hurt, Speirs has a minor California Scene and Nixon is a little shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I exceeded 5,000 words and almost a week of working on this. I'm hella proud of it.  
> So here, have some Speirs/Lipton with your cereal.

The week since the party had, thankfully, been quiet for everyone. Assignments had started being given out for over half of the classes, so most of the boys had taken to staying in their rooms to get a head start on their workload in order to limit the amount they had to do over the winter break (still two months away, but whatever, right?). It was with the knowledge that most of the dorm would be sequestered away in their rooms with piles of books on a Saturday afternoon that Carwood Lipton went for a walk around the building, checking on everyone and making sure that they had everything they needed (because he was a good friend like that).

Donald Hoobler had absolutely had enough of his assignments for the week, and instead was clearing out some junk that had accumulated in his dorm. His usual bouncy demeanour had made light work of the pile of trash he needed to get rid of, and the hallway just outside of 303 had become an impromptu garbage dump since his roomie, Edward Tipper, had flat out refused to move the junk, saying something about it being his rubbish and his responsibility. Normally Tip was really cool about this kind of thing, but at that moment he was apparently suffering from a chronic lack of free time and  _fun._

So that was the setting; Lipton taking a casual stroll around the dorm, and Hoobler flinging things recklessly into the hall.

Lipton’s first port of call was Bull Randleman, just to see if he needed any help on the history assignment they were both working on. Incidentally, Bull and Johnny Martin were roomed right across the hall from Hoobler, so as Lipton was making his way down the hall, he was right in the line of sight of the pile Hoobler had set out. Raising his eyebrow slightly at the mess, Lipton risked a quick look into Hoobler’s dorm, which was an undeniably ridiculous idea because at that precise moment, Hoobler threw a box of junk through the open door, catching Lipton square in the face and sending him reeling backwards into the door of 306. However, it wasn’t the door of 306 that opened to the noise, it was  _305,_ it’s sole resident being Ronald Speirs. Speirs stood in the doorway for a few minutes, surveying the scene before recognising Lipton lying prone on the floor.

“What happened?” Speirs asked, kneeling next to Lipton and gingerly pulling into a sitting position.

Lipton was a little dazed, and more than a little confused, and all he did was let his mouth bob open for a few seconds before a trembling Hoobler caught wind of the situation and and stumbled out of his room, spewing apologies.

“I’m sorry, Lip! I didn’t see you there I didn’t meant to…” Speirs cut him off with the palm of his hand held up to silence him, the other hand tentatively turning Lipton’s face to the side to check the gash that now marred the side of his face before looking around at the boxes and grabbing what looked like a cotton t-shirt from one of them and holding it to the wound that was now bleeding excessively for it’s size and placement.

“What the hell happened?” Speirs demanded, rounding on a terrified Hoobler, who merely stuttered a few syllables and backed away a few steps.

Lipton, seeing that Speirs was intimidating Hoobler a little too much, instinctively put a hand out to stop him, but succeeded only in grasping his shirt, his fingers grazing the skin underneath.

Speirs stopped dead, the glare he had trained on Hoobler slipping away when he looked down at the hand gripping him. He looked back up, noticing that the shirt he was holding to Lipton’s face was quickly soaking through with blood. Pulling it away to inspect, Speirs was surprised to find that the blood was flowing as freely as when the incident occurred despite the direct pressure he was applying. It wasn’t clotting, Roe wouldn’t be back until four on account of being invited on a college course that week, and Speirs didn’t know how to handle medical emergencies since he’d never been the one to take any of the injured students to the hospital.

He hated hospitals.

He also didn’t have a car, just a motorbike that he obviously couldn’t put Lipton on in his condition.

“Help me get him up,” Speirs commanded, nodding briefly at Hoobler, who instantly jumped into action. For someone who was perpetually clumsy (and often ended up causing himself and others more harm than help), Hoobler was surprisingly swift in getting Lipton off the floor and into the elevator.

“Wait in the lobby,” He said as he got out on the second floor, “Keep that on his face.” He added just as the doors closed on Hoobler and Lipton.

Winters’ and Nixon’s room was quiet when Speirs lock-picked his way in. He didn’t know where they were, and mostly he didn’t really care. Their business was theirs, and his business in that moment was Lipton, which meant that pretty much anything in his way was going to get bulldozed - including the fact that he didn’t own a car.

The solution to this problem was sitting on the breakfast bar between a ring binder and a collection of whisky bottles (Speirs briefly wondered how Nixon hadn’t been expelled for contraband yet), the key fobs glinting in the fluorescent light. Speirs picked up the keys to Nixon’s shiny Volvo and left everything else untouched, closing the door with a  _bang_  behind him, tapping his fingers impatiently against the chrome elevator door while he waited for them to open and realising that not having stair access that wasn’t linked to the fire alarm was probably a heath and safety hazard.

Downstairs in the lobby, Hoobler had set Lipton up on one of the communal couches and was kneeling in front of him while holding the now entirely blood-soaked t-shirt to his face. And panicking. Hoobler was panicking quite a bit.

“I’m so sorry, Lip, really I am… shit, why won’t it stop bleeding?”

“It’s alright Hoob, it’s alright,” Lipton mumbled, feeling woozy, like he might pass out at any given minute. Speirs’ re-appearance struck Lipton as being quite odd for the senior - usually he was very cool and breezed past people without giving it much thought, but now he looked agitated and more than a little stressed.

“Get him in the car,” And there was the Speirs that Lipton remembered.

“Which car?”

“Well there’s only one car in the lot,”

Hoobler helped Lipton to his feet and they followed Speirs through the building doors out into the courtyard. Fox block was opposite them, a mirror image of Easy block, with a parking strip between the two buildings. True to what Speirs said, there was only one car parked up - a huge silver Volvo, personalised number plates reading  _N1XONIII_ and absolutely no-one around to see Speirs liberate it.

Sliding into the drivers seat, Speirs turned the key in the ignition and was revving the engine before Hoobler even had Lipton strapped in, so he leaned across and yanked the seatbelt out of Hoobler’s hands and did it himself. Lipton made a vague protest about being able to do it himself, but Speirs was clearly having none of it.

“Shut the door and stand back,” Speirs ordered Hoobler, who followed instructions better than he could ever remember doing so and standing well back from the car as Speirs slammed the gears into reverse, then into drive and tore out of the campus, leaving Hoobler in a cloud of Georgian dust.

* * *

 

The nearest hospital to them was a thirty minute drive. Speirs made it in fifteen, despite the other cars on the road, which he frequently and colourfully swore at to ‘ _get the fuck out of my way_ ’ and ‘ _why the fuck are you on the goddamn road you slow-moving-cloud piece of trash’_ to a man on a mobility scooter on the side of the road.

Lipton almost laughed at his overreaction to such small setbacks, that was until he realised that Speirs had parked them not only right outside the hospital entrance, but also in a no parking zone.

“You can’t park here,” He protested lamely as Speirs was leaning across him to unbuckle the seatbelt. He was briefly hit with whatever cologne Speirs was wearing, and he turned his head to the side to avoid overwhelming himself, catching sight of a pile of whiskey bottles in the back seat.

“And why do you have half a liquor store in here?”

“They’re not mine,” Speirs grunted, holding his hand out for Lipton to use for stability. He was still dazed and bleeding, even half an hour post-incident, so he took Speirs’ hand and climbed out of the car, swaying dangerously and almost toppling over at one point.

Speirs was having his own issue as they checked in at the desk, a nurse promising that someone would be out to get him in a few minutes. The whole place smelled like antiseptic and plastic, a smell Speirs had hoped, wished, even prayed, that he would never have to smell again. But he was already there, with Lipton slouching in a plastic waiting chair, and there was no backing out now.

There were very few other people in the waiting area, for which Speirs was grateful. There were less people around to see him slowly start to disintegrate. A young boy, maybe eleven, wearing a backwards flat cap and an obnoxious green hoodie (he also had his ankle strapped up) was staring at him. Speirs bared his teeth, halfway between a condescending smile and a threat. The child looked away immediately.

“Carwood Lipton?” A pretty brunette nurse called out from the entrance to cubicles. She had her hair pulled back tightly against her head, a blue nurses uniform, and a comforting smile.

Speirs helped Lipton to his feet, but let him walk on his own since his general reaction to being man-handled was a lot of swatting away of Speirs’ hands and grumbling about being fine.

“Hey there Mr. Lipton,” The nurse was disgustingly chipper in the face of what Speirs felt  _could_  be a fatal wound, “That’s a real nasty cut you've got there, how long has it been bleeding for?”

Speirs was fighting the urge to tell this nurse to just get him in a damn cubicle and  _fucking fix him_. Instead, he gave the pretty southern nurse a tight-lipped smile and said, “Over forty minutes.”

The nurse looked slightly startled and gave Lipton’s face the once-over, apparently noting for the first time the bloody rag he was using to stem the flow.

“Okay, well we’ll get that fixed right up. Come on through to the cubicles,” She turned around to lead the way, and then turned right back to brightly say, “Your boyfriend can come with you if you like. It’ll be no problem.”

Lipton blinked, looking at Speirs and blushing. Not that anyone but Lipton himself could tell because his face was covered in blood smears.

Speirs himself seemed to be unfazed by this development. In fact, the only indication he gave that he even registered what the nurse had said was a quick glance at Lipton and his jaw clenching harshly.

* * *

 

“Alrighty, this is the last stitch. Boy, that sure was a deep cut for comin’ from a  _box,_ ” Nurse Ashley, a peppy blonde who had taken over from the peppy brunette, giggled as she tied off the last stitch in Lipton’s cheek. She had found the story of his mishap highly amusing, something that a tired Lipton found grating, but he sat by and let her sew his face together and stop the bleeding while she chattered about boxes and blood disorders and told him to make an appointment with the haematology department because ‘ _all this bleedin’ just ain’t right, honey_ ’, while Speirs stood in the corner glowering at her back.

Speirs really hated hospitals, he really hated peppy nurses with an everything-will-be-alright attitude, and he  _really_  hated people touching his stuff. And when he had this thought, his fingers twitched and his face almost flushed, but it only managed to reach the tops of his ears because he had to remind himself that Carwood Lipton was  _not_  his, and probably never would be because who the fuck would want to be with the guy who’s most notable achievement at Toccoa was supposedly beating a kid up so badly that he later died in hospital (an unfounded and untrue rumour that Speirs had never bothered to correct).

He was so busy being negative about the whole situation that he had failed to realise that Nurse Ashley was speaking to him.

“Honey?”

_Call me ‘honey’ one more time…_  Speirs thought, grimacing, but giving her half of his attention. The other half turned to Lipton and the six stitches that were keeping his face together. Someone was going to pay for that.

“Just take him to get some sugar, alright? He ain’t got no concussion so he should be fine to sleep most of it off, but he’s lost quite a bit of blood so just get his blood sugar up. Coffee would do fine, or even some soda,”

“I’ll… look after him.” Speirs said gruffly. Lipton still looked groggy, only now a little more stable since the bleeding had stopped.

“I thought you might,” She smiled knowingly at Speirs and turned to Lipton, “Now don’t forget to make that appointment with haematology. You take care of yourself now, honey.”

And she sent them both off to the front desk to deal with the paperwork.  

* * *

 

Lipton insisted that he could deal with the paperwork and call his mom by himself. Speirs was reluctant to leave him alone in the hospital, but he was also thankful that he didn’t have to spend another minute in the sick-smelling confines of wipe-clean halls, so he left with a nod and went to find out the damage he caused by leaving Nixon’s car in a no parking zone.

Happily, the damage was minimal - Speirs ripped the parking ticket off the windshield and shoved it into his pocket, intent to forget that it existed for the present moment, since Lipton was on his way back to the car, all fixed up and less bloody.

Speirs opened the car door for him and ushered him inside, Lipton mumbling about being able to open his own door and Speirs remaining silent, knowing that, yeah, he could definitely open his own doors, but he didn’t  _have_  to when he was there.

The car remained silent for most of the ride back, Speirs was trying so hard to focus on the road that his attention kept wandering and checking the passenger seat to make sure Lipton was still there.

He was, always, still there, tapping away furiously on his phone that had been continually buzzing since they left campus.

_Where are you?_

_Lip what happened man u ok?????_

_Hoob is crying in his room pls come back soon. Speirs ain’t gonna kill him, right?_

Lipton appreciated that his friends were worried about him, but he wished they would all just quit for a while because he was so  _tired_  and he just wanted to enjoy the quiet that Speirs was providing. So he took the path of least resistance, created a group facebook chat with everyone in the dorm included, typed:

_I’m with Speirs._

And turned his phone off. He knew that would probably raise a few questioning eyebrows, a couple of concerns of safety and more than half of them would message him back demanding ‘pics or it didn’t happen’, but they could wait.  _He_  knew he was safe with Speirs,  _he_  knew that this was real and happening and that he’d just been taken to the hospital by the one person in the dorm that he never thought would even look at him. He didn’t need pictures to prove it. And despite (what he thought was) his better judgement, Speirs was a veritable oasis of calm in an otherwise mad world.

He leaned his forehead up against the cool glass of the window and let himself drift off, unworried about when or if they would get back to campus.

* * *

 

It had only seemed like seconds ago when Lipton had fallen asleep, and he was already being woken up. Speirs was still sitting behind the wheel, but they weren’t moving and he had clearly cut the engine.

Slowing, Lipton opened his eyes and glanced around at their surroundings. He immediately recognised the main street closest to campus - the whole of Easy Block used to hang out there on weekends before they realised that they should probably be getting a head start on their workloads. It had been almost a year since Lipton had walked down that street, or gone to the Starbucks that was nestled across the street, between the local bookshop and grocery store. It was a beautiful place though, full of colourful awnings and mom-and-pop shops that had largely managed to stay open despite the influx of big corporations. He knew that Webster still used the independent bookstore, Winters got pretty much everything from the grocery store, and Malarkey, Penkala and Muck were almost always in Starbucks ordering fifteen to-go espressos before game night. There were good memories here, with good people. Lipton was happy to be back, if only for a while.

“You need sugar,” Speirs started, but Lipton was already unbuckling his belt and nodding, ready to go. Speirs shifted uncomfortably, “Right.”

The coffee shop was quiet. It was only mid afternoon, so the lunch rush was over and the after-work rush hadn’t quite started. The barista was mopping behind the counter, looked up briefly when Speirs and Lipton entered, and went to put her mop away.

“I’ll be just a minute,” She smiled, running off to the back room. Speirs gently nudged Lipton towards an armchair seat near the windows with his elbow and an incline of his head, but he didn’t move. Speirs gave a lightly annoyed huff and noted that the barista had returned.

“Hey, what can I get you?” She asked, sharpie ready and poised.

“Black coffee,” Speirs said though he preferred something smokier, they didn’t have it on the menu and he wasn’t about to ask for something they didn’t have, “Carwood?”

Lipton blinked at him for a second, unused to people calling him by his first name, “Uh… um, chai latte. Please.” And he dug around in his pockets for cash, but Speirs had already handed over a note and was getting change.

“Will you just go and sit down, you’re making me anxious stood there like that.” Speirs griped, once again gently pushing Lipton in the direction of some chairs, “I’ll bring it over.”

Reluctantly, Lipton shuffled off to an armchair by the window, collapsing in it clumsily and watching the few people outside through the glass.

There was a willowy redheaded woman, who still had the remnants of her baby bump, pushing a brand new stroller on the other side of the street, pausing occasionally to look in a store window. The blanket in the stroller told Lipton that she’d just had a baby girl.

An old couple was meandering along, hand in hand, the woman was bent forward, something wrong with her back, and the man was using a walking cane. But they were still smiling at each other and laughing and Lipton wondered if he’d ever have that.

Speirs was stood behind him, wondering exactly the same thing. Not that Lipton noticed at first, because he was busy lazily watching the workings of the street outside.

“Drink this,” Speirs said, cleared his throat, and sat down opposite Lipton at the little wooden table. Lipton complied, sipping the hot beverage. They sat in silence for some time, drinking their coffee, and Speirs watching the colour slowly return to Lipton’s ashen face, until his phone started ringing in his pocket.

He looked momentarily embarrassed as he slid an old motorola razr flip phone from his jeans and checked the caller ID.

“I need to take this,” He supplied, getting up and moving outside, flipping the phone open and answering the call on his way. At first, he looked concerned, like this was a call that could go seriously wrong, but as Lipton watched him from the window (he would maintain that he  _wasn’t_  watching Speirs, but the general street area, in which Speirs just  _happened_  to be) he could see that Speirs had relaxed and was smiling into the phone, one hand in his pocket, and one leg swinging as he kicked at the ground. He even laughed once or twice, the first time Lipton had ever seen him do such a thing.

The conversation lasted just shy of ten minutes (not that Lipton was counting) and at the end, Speirs said  _I love you_  (not that Lipton was watching). Then he slid the phone back into his pocket and rejoined Lipton at the table.

“Sorry,” He said, sitting down and picking up his coffee.

“Girlfriend?” Lipton asked, just to be polite. It’s not that he wanted to know or… well, there was nothing else to talk about, right?

Speirs snorted straight into his cup.

“No.” Then he looked apologetic at his clipped reply and sighed, “It was my nana. She always checks in to make sure I’m doing okay. And to make sure I know that she’s fine.”

Lipton was suddenly very embarrassed to have assumed that Speirs was talking to a girlfriend just because he’d told them he loved them.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He looked down at his drink, “So you… um, you see her often?”

Speirs’ face split into a smile again, and for once, Lipton was left pretty stunned.

“Yeah, all the time. Hell, I live with her when I’m not here,” He said this like it was extraordinarily normal, and with a slight shrug of one shoulder, but he looked pleased with this arrangement. He seemed to like talking about his nana, so that’s where Lipton went with the conversation, asking about her.

Speirs told him that her name was Brenda, she was seventy-one years old, and when he was home they lived in a pretty rough neighbourhood but everyone there adored her, even the kids that ran with the wrong crowds. She liked to knit, she fed anyone that came into the house (including, once, a burglar that then decided that he couldn’t rob a little old lady and ended up coming over once a week for afternoon tea thereafter), and once she had bitched out a particularly horrible church lady that came to her door to talk about the ‘sin of homosexuality’.

Lipton felt like he knew her personally by the time Speirs had finished, and Speirs himself looked slightly flustered and out of breath, clearly very awkward that he had spent so long talking about his nana.

“She sounds great,” Lipton smiled, noting that they had been there so long his latte had gone cold, “So how come you live with her?”

That made Speirs stop talking, stop smiling. He licked his lips slightly and swallowed hard, looking anywhere but at Lipton. His discarded coffee cup was a favourite in that moment. He looked like he was contemplating just not saying anything else at all, as he was so prone to do when any conversations with him went south or took a turn he didn’t like; he’d just leave. But here, he couldn’t  _just_  leave.

But he took a breath and said, “My mom ran off to Ohio with some guy she met at the bank when I was a kid because she wasn’t cut out to be a mom. It was me and my dad for a long time,” His eyes were darting around, occasionally settling on Lipton for longer than strictly necessary, “Then he got sick. And died. So I moved in with nana.”

Speirs was not a good sharer when it came to personal information, and he was pretty pissed at himself that his first real alone-conversation with Lipton had taken a turn down Depressing Lane so quickly. Surely he didn’t want to hear about his issues with a runaway mother and dead father.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lipton said tactfully, though he knew that everyone said this whenever they heard someone had died, he really meant it. He knew what it was like to lose a parent, “My dad died too. Car accident when I was ten.”

He hoped that sounded supportive and not like one-upmanship. Speirs seemed to take it this way at least, as he was nodding.

They were sharing. This was pleasant.

“Cancer,” Speirs said, and Lipton knew immediately that he was referring to how his father died, “We spent a lot of time in the hospital. I hate it there now.”

“I’m sorry I made you go back,” Lipton was appalled that he’d kept Speirs in the hospital with him for so long if he hated it so much. He never would have if he’d known…

“It’s fine,” Speirs shook his head, “You needed someone with you.”

“I only had a couple of stitches-”

“Six,” Speirs cut him off, “You had  _six_  stitches.”

Lipton pressed his lips together and made The Face - the one that was almost a smile, but was trying not to be, shrugged and looked away.

The barista, who’s eye he caught, was smiling at them and gave Lipton a thumbs up and a wink. His eyes widened, he coughed, and said, “Perhaps we should head back to campus.”

* * *

 

The car ride back was short and silent. Speirs drove less like a madman, didn’t yell at other drivers, and parked smoothly into the same space they had screeched out of.

“I want you to check in with Renée,” Speirs insisted. Renée was the school nurse, about twenty-five, french, and the only female on campus ever. She was very nice, and Lipton had visited her a fair few times when Hoobler injured himself (or someone else) as a chaperone.

“Why?”

“Incident report,” Speirs was already walking towards the main campus building, “She’ll be able to take the stitches out when it’s healed, too.”

Lipton nodded along in affirmation.

Renée’s office was on the first floor, tucked away nicely between the assembly hall and the cafeteria. She was usually in her office-come-ward (seriously, she had a line of beds in there, and a large amount of medical equipment that Lipton wasn’t always sure it was legal to have) until six in the evening, and it was only five-thirty so…  _Oh god_ , Lipton thought,  _we were at Starbucks for nearly two hours!_

There were slightly muffled voices from inside the room, so Speirs knocked and waited for Renée’s french accent to beckon them in. The voices stopped.

“Come in,” She called, and they entered.

They found Babe sat on one of the beds, apparently having his hand tended to, looking every inch the petulant teenager as Roe and Renée talked to each other in fluent, fast french while she cleaned up his minor injury.

Renée gave them both a quick once-over, a short nod, and turned back to Babe.

“You are all cleaned up,” She smiled, gently, just as she did everything else gently and with a smile.

Babe was having none of it. He snatched his hand back, grumbled a ‘thank you’ because he was brought up to have Proper Manners, and angrily stomped out of the room, leaving Roe watching after him with that strange confused-concerned expression he had so skilfully mastered somewhere along the way.

Renée laughed and said to Roe, “ _Il a le béguin pour toi, tu sais._ ”

Roe sighed his response, heading for the door himself, “ _Je sais._ ”

He nodded at Speirs and Lipton on the way out.

“Carwood, how can I help you?” Renée greeted him with a smile, and a quick check over. Obviously, she had noted the stitches and was probably concerned at the presence of Speirs (he had not once, in four years at Toccoa, been to the nurses office).

“I need to file an incident report please, Renée,”

“Ah,” She nodded, only slightly loosing her glowing smile, “Yes. Well, this way,  _s'il vous plaît_.”

* * *

 

Speirs dropped Lipton off at his room without incident. There was no-one in the lobby, the halls were empty, and no-one was around to witness the awkward goodbye they shared where neither knew what to say. Lipton had settled with ‘thanks’ and Speirs had replied, dumbfounded, with ‘any time’.

He kicked himself for that one. It almost made it sound like he wanted Lipton to get hurt again so they could take a friendly trip down to the E.R and the local Starbucks. This was not, in fact, something Speirs wanted. He’d rather not have to take any of the boys to the hospital again, and especially not Lipton.

As he was about to break into Hoobler’s room and leave a threatening message for him (just as a little revenge - Speirs kind of hadn’t forgiven him for the incident yet), he remembered the weight of Nixon’s car keys in his pocket.

And the damn parking ticket.

Deciding that Hoobler could wait, because he was probably still crying from their encounter earlier, he made his way back down to Winters’ and Nixon's dorm.

He had only just knocked when the door flew open, Nixon standing there in sweatpants and a black t-shirt, with Winters on one of the couches behind him, huddled under a fluffy blanket and leaning back so he could see who was at the door.

“Sparky!” Nixon greeted, using the nickname Speirs was not particularly fond of, but allowed regardless.

Speirs wordlessly shoved the liberated car keys into Nixon’s free hand (the other was holding the door open).

“Ah, I was wondering where these ran off to,” He jingled them and slipped them into his pants pocket.

Speirs then smoothed out the parking ticket out and handed that to him too. Nixon raised his truly fantastic eyebrows at the ‘gift’ and Speirs tuned to leave as fast as possible.

“Hold up,” Nixon started. Speirs turned around slightly, so all Nixon could see of him was his profile and Speirs watching him from the corner of his eye.

“So  _you_  went on a date with Lip, and  _I’m_  the one that gets the parking ticket?”

Speirs’ blood ran cold. That wasn’t a date. He didn’t date. He didn’t know  _how_  to date.

And he couldn’t tell if Nixon was joking or not because there was a lilt to his voice that usually accompanied his jokes but… he’d, dare he say it, actually  _enjoyed_  spending time with Lipton. Alone. At a coffee shop. Not so much the hospital thing, but other than that it was an enjoyable experience.

_Shit_ , he’d been on an accidental date with Lipton. Did Lipton know about this? What the  _hell_  was happening?

And Nixon was laughing at him, “You should see your face! Hey, Dick, check it out, Speirs went on a date with Lip and didn’t know it!”

“Leave him alone, Lew,” Winters called. Good friend, Winters. Always there when you needed him.

Speirs hoped he wouldn’t mind that he was about to kill his boyfriend.

“Alright, alright. Have a nice night, lover-boy,” Nixon snickered, and shut the door on him.

_Fuck,_ Speirs thought, contemplating going in search of a quiet place to smoke and sort his muddled brain out.

* * *

 

(Hoobler woke up the next morning with a note taped to his forehead that simply read SIX STITCHES in block capitals, neatly sized, terribly threatening.

He cried.)


	5. The One With The Post

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Webster finds that he has friends, Roe has a decision to make, and Liebgott just won't let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was intended to be a kind-of filler, but it got a bit crazier than anticipated. So is the rocky road of taking everything a chapter at a time I suppose.  
> I don't feel as good about this chapter as the others, but I don't want to re-write it so it will suffice as the filler I intended it to be.

Toccoa withheld the first mail delivery of the year. No-one had any idea why they did it, but it happened every year.

Mail was delivered to students once a month, but for some reason, the September delivery never got to them until October. Sometimes this was annoying (as was the case with students who had forgotten something when they moved back - this year included Christenson forgetting his underwear and having to borrow his roomie’s until he could buy more) and sometimes it was convenient - in the case of Webster.

Webster had forgotten to pack something incredibly important that year, but he didn’t need them until - he checked his calendar - the third week of December. Still, he’d been prepared since mid June, and since he’d forgotten to pack them, his mom had sent them all to him with the first round of post.

_Them_  being Liebgott’s Hanukkah presents. All fucking eight of them.

So now Webster was stood in his dorm room, a pile of neatly-wrapped (with bows and all) presents that he had no clue what to do with sat on the coffee table. He sure as hell wasn’t giving them to Liebgott.

Webster tipped his head back, sighed, and tried his damnedest not to cry. He’d let himself cry too much over Liebgott in the last couple of weeks, but everything he did made him think about him. Showing up to German class was the  _worst_  because not only was he there, but he wouldn’t even _look_  at him. It was like Webster didn’t even exist to him.

God, he needed a nap.

Collapsing face-down on the couch, he was asleep in minutes from the sheer exhaustion of having  _emotions_.

* * *

The delayed post was also a joy for another person - Bill Guarnere. He’d been very sneakily feeding Mama Heffron information on an almost daily business, almost all of it concerning Babe and his growing crush on one Eugene Roe.

Mama Heffron was  _delighted_  and always wanted  _all of_ the details, and Bill was only too happy to oblige.

Which was why Bill found himself sifting through the post sent to Babe for anything addressed to Roe. Why Mama Heffron didn’t send it directly to Roe - or even to Bill - was beyond him, but she seemed to be under the impression that Babe and the Doc had something more than an awkward flirtation and frequent trips to the school nurse when Babe inevitably fucked over in Roe’s presence.

But there it was: a cream-coloured envelope, neatly addressed to  _Eugene Roe: C/O Edward Heffron._

Bill snickered and pocketed the envelop, intent on delivering it to Roe himself. If Babe got a hold of it, it would likely end up shredded and tossed to the wind while Babe blushed and sputtered and bitched Bill out over telling his Ma about Roe.

“Hey, Doc!” Bill spotted Roe sitting in the lobby, apparently working on an assignment, since he was bent over a particularly large book and furiously writing notes on post-its. He looked up when he heard the call for him. Bill was waving the envelope in the air, “Got something for ya,”

Roe quirked an eyebrow slightly, but otherwise made no movement.

Bill dropped the envelope on top of his reading material, grinned at him, and shot off to the elevator, leaving Roe to blush when he read Babe’s name on the care-of line, and open the mail alone.

* * *

Luz had spent most of the week listening to Webster’s music through the wall. The annoying part of it was that he was listening to two songs, on repeat, at an obscene volume.

They weren’t even good songs. He was pretty sure one of them was Joy Division (his brother  _really_  liked Joy Division and all associated pretentious British rock bullshit) and the other was that 2005 emo stuff Perconte was always trying to jam down his throat.

In short, Luz was not enjoying himself, Webster was throwing himself a pity party every night, and something had to be done about it.

“Hey, Skippity-do-dah, we still on for the movies tonight?” Luz was leaning on the doorframe of 207’s second bedroom, where Muck and Penkala were top-and-tailing on the bottom bunk of their bed. Muck’s feet were resting on Penkala’s chest as he tapped away on an old Nintendo DS while Penkala was reading some gaming magazine.

“Yeah,” Muck had barely noticed Luz’s presence, and Luz hadn’t noticed Penkala until he tried to sit up and got kicked back down by Muck’s feet.

“I didn’t know we were going out tonight,”

“Shit. Sorry, Don was in charge of it,” Muck grimaced. He and Malarkey had _literally_ forgotten to invite their own boyfriend, “Clearly you’re coming, though. And no, not like that.”

Penkala laughed. He probably would be coming like that too.

Luz rolled his eyes, “Yeah well I was thinking-“

“Damn, best not George. You’re not the greatest at it.”

“Shut your trap, Penk, I know what you get up to in here so unless you want _that_  all over the dorm,  _can it._ ” George Luz was not there for bullshit jibes. He was there on business. “Anyway, I thought we could invite some of the other guys. You know, make a thing of it.”

Muck was nodding along, pretending to listen.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s cool. Ask Don first, though, he’s in charge.”

Penkala tipped his head back to look at Luz, “What, like Winters and stuff?”

“Nah. I have been reliably informed that Nix is still royally fucked from his birthday party. Or birthday week, whatever,” He paused briefly, thinking up some people other than his intended target to invite out, “I’ll just ask around, see who wants in.”

* * *

Luz did indeed ask around. He managed to get Shifty, Talbert and Buck on board before he stopped at Webster’s room. Thankfully it was silent, so he didn’t have to worry about walking in on a pity party.

Which was good, because Luz rarely, if ever, knocked before entering.

So the door swung open, Luz waltzed in, took a look around, and declared to himself that Webster wasn’t even there.

Which was a mistake, because Webster was definitely there, but he’d sunk himself so low into the couch facing away from the door that Luz, in all his shortness, couldn’t see him. It was only when Webster stirred at the sound of Luz calling for him that the issue was resolved, and Luz happily bounded towards the couch and leant over the back, beaming down at a sleepy Webster, who, naturally, had his mouth open.

Probably in shock this time, but since he usually had his mouth open it was up for debate.

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“George, what the fuck,” It wasn’t even a question. It was more like Webster didn’t even really care that Luz was there or addressing him as a flower.

“You’ve been sad about Liebgott for a very long time,” He said. Webster blinked slowly, trying to comprehend the sentence, “You’ve also been listening to two songs on repeat for a week and I can’t listen to it any more. So you’re going to come out with us tonight, we’re gonna have fun, and you’re gonna forget about your awkward boyfriend issues, okay?”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore… wait,” Webster hissed, pushing himself into a sitting position and almost hitting his head on Luz as he did so. Luz did not move back, since he had approximately zero respect for personal space. “You knew the entire time, didn’t you?”

Luz grinned manically, “Nah, only since we got back. I was hiding under your bed.”

This perplexed Webster even more because what the hell, when was George Luz under his bed, how did he get there, and what does that have to do with him knowing about his relationship with Liebgott?

“I have so many questions.”

“We don’t have time for them. You need to take a shower and you need to shave. Jesus Web, when was the last time your face saw a razor?” Luz was grimacing, looking Webster up and down and taking into account his rumpled clothes, the messy hair and, of course, the beard Webster had going on from not bothering to shave for almost a week.

But dammit, he was too  _sad_  to shave.

“You sure you’re sixteen? You’re suspiciously hairy.”

* * *

Just shy of an hour later, Webster had showered, shaved, and was looking more presentable than he had in two full weeks. All because Luz wanted him to go to the movies to see a film about trolls in boxes.

It was the lamest thing Webster had ever heard of, and yet he found himself strangely excited. He did not, as a rule, enjoy going out with his dorm mates, but walking into town with them chattering excitedly in front of him - Luz outlining the general concept of the film to Buck and Perconte (who were dutifully listening to him despite having seen the trailer), Shifty and Talbert walking so close together that their hands brushed with every step they took, Grant, Christenson, Malarkey and Penkala laughing as Muck took running leaps and jumped over benches, trash cans and various street obstacles, more often than not falling on his face - was nice.

It was normal, and it was something he should have been able to do with Lieb- _goddamn it_  why did everything in his life have to come back to that?

Webster shook his head. They were at the theatre, and Luz was holding out his hand for everyone’s money, citing that it would be easier to just buy all of the tickets in one go. Webster dutifully handed over his cash, shoving his hands back in the khakis he’d settled on wearing that  _totally_  made him look like a prep school kid when paired with his blazer (which he was obviously also wearing). Next to the trio of Muck, Malarkey and Penkala who lived in neon and shorts, he looked positively pretentious.

And when stood next to Lieb-  _fuck_ , no. He wasn’t going there again. No more Liebgott.

(Although Liebgott dressed like a punk and yeah, standing next to him it was like looking at chalk and cheese.)

The film was okay. It was nothing Webster would have thought of watching himself, and he did absolutely keep getting distracted because he was sandwiched between Shifty and Talbert on one side and Luz on the other. The latter kept whispering witty comments to him, and the former were going for gold on how long they could hold their breath (aka, they were snogging and it was gross but weirdly, Webster didn’t mind because at the same time, Shifty kept pulling back and giggling and it was horribly adorable).

“So how does it feel having friends, Web?” Luz asked when they left the theatre. He didn’t mean it in a nasty way, Webster knew. Luz was a very specific brand of often opening his mouth before he thought and also occasionally being tactless. But he meant well.

Webster smiled, “Feels good.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Luz elbowed him playfully, grinning, “You down for going to The Diner?”

The Diner was a pokey fifties-style place a few streets back from the main road that dealt almost exclusively in poor hygiene, excellent milkshakes, and approximately one meal that Webster, being the vegetarian that he was, could eat. And even that was questionable.

“Sure,”

Luz  _whoop_ ed and ran ahead slightly and launched himself onto Buck’s back. Buck was clearly startled, but hooked his arms under Luz’s legs and carried him all the way to The Diner, then unceremoniously dumped him in one of the battered cherry-red vinyl booths and tried to cram the other ten of them in after him.

Webster somehow ended up stuffed between Muck and Malarkey, which was deeply awkward because he knew by now that there was  _something_  going on with them and Penkala by the way Muck kept pouting and looking at Malarkey and he definitely didn’t want to be in the middle of it, but there was no way in hell they were getting out of the booth to re-arrange.

They would just have to deal with it.

* * *

Back on campus, Roe was looking for his scissors. Since he was the most organised of all of them, and literally always had a full, double, stationary set, his dorm mates thought it was just fine to come in and borrow things without asking.

He didn’t mind, really, he didn’t, but Christ, if they could just learn to put it back when they were done he wouldn’t have to chase up his goddamn scissors every three days. What did they all need with scissors, anyway?

He’d gone through all of the rooms he thought they might be in, and turned up nothing. He was beginning to get frustrated as he took the elevator down to the lobby, but, hey, there they were! All shiny and waiting for him on one of the work tables - along with a ‘studying’ Babe, who mostly just looked pissed off and so absolutely done with his assignment.

Roe softened considerably as he approached. Babe kind of weirdly did that to him.

“Hey,” He said. Babe jumped a mile, sending his textbook hurling to the floor, the coveted scissors and a whole lot of highlighters with it. Roe chuckled.

“Oh, hey Gene,” Babe grimaced, leaning down to pick up his book. Roe noted that it was a freshman Biology textbook.

“Havin’ a problem?” He asked, stooping to pick up his scissors and the highlighters Babe had left on the floor, “I could help if you wanted.”

Babe blinked a couple of times, cracked his knuckles as Roe had learned he was prone to do when nervous or uncomfortable, and nodded.

“Yeah… yeah, that would be great,” He mumbled, turning away slightly and setting the book out on the table again. Roe slid into the seat opposite him and placed the highlighters in front of him. Babe was looking flustered again, flipping pages at lightning speed and completely avoiding eye contact. Roe was tempted to find it endearing. Babe spent half of their time together throwing cheesy pickup lines at him and generally being damn precocious, and the other half he turned into a blushing wreck that constantly avoided him.

So yeah, he knew Babe had a crush on him. That much was obvious without Renée pointing it out to him, thank you. But that didn’t explain the sudden switch in behaviour every few days.

Roe reached out and grasped Babe’s wrist, “Calm down. What are you stuck on?”

“Just… everything?” Babe sighed, “Shit, the whole qualitative and quantitative stuff confuses me. And cells. Mitochondria is the power house of the cell! But what the fuck is that?”

Roe laughed, “Aint you taking sociology? You gonna need to know qualitative and quantitative, so how about we start with that?” He smiled encouragingly, finally letting go of Babe’s wrist (he might have completely forgotten that he was still holding on to him) and flipping through the textbook himself.

Babe just nodded, dumbfounded, and followed Roe’s lead.

Within half an hour, Babe felt much more confident in his ability to biology. Roe was a good teacher, patient when Babe didn’t understand, proud when he did.

At one point, Roe cleared his throat and said, “Heffron-“

Babe instinctually cut him off with, “Babe.”

“Your mom sent me a birthday card.”

Babe looked mortified. He  _was_  mortified. How the hell had his mom known when Roe’s birthday was?  _He_  didn’t even know when it was!

This had ‘Bill Guarnere’ written all over it. Babe stewed over that for a few minutes while Roe watched him silently. He hadn’t meant to make Babe angry, but seeing him slowly grind his teeth was slightly amusing, if only because it was a new sight.

Obviously, Bill Guarnere chose that moment to show up, ostensibly to watch the communal television they had in the lobby (but probably more to do with the fact that Skinny had told him Babe was in the lobby studying and Spina had told him Roe had gone down there to look for his scissors).

“Good evening boys,” He grinned, stepping out from the elevator with a bottle of pepsi and a bag of chips.

Babe was furious, so much so that when he saw his so-called best friend, he launched at him. His chair shot out from under him and he was on Bill before Bill had time to run for cover or Roe had time to stop him.

“What did you tell my ma about him for?” He yelled, shoving Bill backwards with such intensity that they both nearly stumbled over.

“Babe,” Bill brought his hands up in defence, trying to stop the repeated blows Babe was making to his upper torso, “Chill, it was just a joke! I didn’t think she would do nothin’ like that,”

So he was a liar, whatever. It was for the greater good.

“Fucking hell, Bill! You know how she gets when I like someone!” Babe stopped his assault short, breathing hard.

If he looked closely, Roe was pretty sure he could see steam coming out of his ears. This was the first time he’d ever seen Babe explode like that, and he had to admit that it was pretty terrifying. He made a mental note not to piss him off any time soon, and also one that regretted telling Babe about the birthday card at all.

Babe had turned around to look at Roe, an expression of both fear and anger creeping across his features, until he groaned and stomped into the elevator, repeatedly crushing the button for the second floor until the doors slid shut.

Bill sucked at his teeth, looking at Roe to gauge his reaction. Roe knew he was looking unimpressed. Because he really kind of was.

“Well, now you know that he likes ya,” Bill shrugged, clearly trying to play off events as if they were no big deal.

“I already knew,” Roe replied icily. Actually, now that he thought about it, he was kind of pissed off that Bill had pulled a stunt like this - on his best friend, no less.

“Gonna do anything ‘bout it?” He asked, discarding his snacks to the couch and shoving his hands into his pockets in a defensive measure.

Roe looked away. He might have, maybe, almost, kind of, totally wanted to do something about it.

“He’s fourteen.” Roe said firmly, still not meeting Bill’s eye. He heard Bill’s distinctive Philadelphia  _HAAH_ , and him laughing like this statement was the funniest thing in the world.

“Nah he aint. He’ll be sixteen next birthday.”

“Huh?”

Bill was still chuckling to himself, only now Roe could see from the corner of his eye that he was shaking his head and walking towards the table where he was still sat.

“He’s retaking freshman year. Didn’t tell no-one cause he didn’t want them to think he was dumb or nothin’,” He paused, taking the seat that Babe previously occupied. Roe was almost forced to look at him then. “So, you gonna do anything about his crush?”

Roe pursed his lips, “Might.”

Bill smiled lopsidedly, which looked a bit funny considering his underbite, “I know ya, Doc. You won’t do nothing ‘till he’s sixteen at best. Bet you’d wanna wait for him to be eighteen,” he paused again, probably for dramatic effect.

But Bill was right, Roe  _would_  want to wait for Babe to be eighteen. Anything else would feel like taking advantage. That was just how he was built.

“He won’t have it, you know. Sixteen he’d wait for, but eighteen and you’d push your luck. He’d find someone else. And you’d hurt him in the mean time.” Bill glared at Roe, and that was when he realised he was right in the middle of the best-friend ‘hurt him and I’ll end you’ conversation.

Roe dropped his gaze. He didn’t want to hurt Babe - and he told himself that’s why he would have waited. Then he wanted to kick himself because he hadn’t realised that the red-head’s hot-and-cold approach to flirting had  _actually_ gotten that far under his skin.

“I ain’t gonna hurt him,” Roe levelled, hoping Bill understood that it meant ‘I’d never hurt him knowingly’ because sometimes hurt was an unavoidable truth.

* * *

“Once-”

“Upon-”

“A-”

“Moon!”

“What the fuck?”

“That’s not part of the story, shut up!”

“Dammit Skip,”

“Alright, alright, just keep going!”

Webster was stuck right in the middle of a game of One Word At A Time. They’d already played it once, ending up with a fantastically pornographic story about submissive sharks and their dominant plant overlords and the destruction of the universe. It wasn’t high literature, but Webster thought he should probably save it for any time he needed to laugh - so he was dutifully typing it up as a note on his phone as each word was said.

“The-”

“Sun-”

“Gave-”

“Birth-”

“To-“

“Sharks!”

Every time they got at least halfway around the table, someone would say a word that made absolutely no sense. It was usually Muck or Luz, but Grant had thrown in some questionable words and it had been Talbert that had started them on the sexually explicit road they had never quite left behind, even on their second round.

They were all laughing, and in the midst of it, Webster felt almost normal. Like he was having fun. He’d left feeling lonely and abandoned somewhere back on Main Street, and now he felt light and light-headed from laughing, his cheeks ached from grinning, and when Luz winked at him across the table, he felt included. Wanted.

He was loathe to leave it behind when the manager of the diner kicked them out for being too rowdy, but even that in itself was a victory because damn, Webster had never been kicked out of  _anywhere_  before. He was a true badass now.

They spilled out of the diner, pushing each other, still laughing, mimicking each other’s accents in the light of the street lamps that had come on an hour before.

“How are we getting home?” Luz asked, occasionally having to pause in the middle of his sentence to choke back a laugh.

Everyone shrugged, but kept walking in the way of home. Webster guessed they were walking the three miles back.

“No, all I’m saying is that he’s a good-looking guy!”

“Chris, I hate to be the one to tell you this but… you’re being hella gay this evening.”

“George, I’ve been this gay my whole life.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

Webster was happily listening to the group chatter as they rounded the main campus building and made their way back to Easy Block. Clearly, talk had turned to the surprising accidental date of Speirs and Lipton.

“Okay, yeah, he’s conventionally attractive, but he’s fucking  _terrifying_.”

“Buck, you’ve known him longer than anyone. He always been this scary?” Luz was trying to get everyone involved, and much to his disappointment, the only ones who were really interested were Christenson, Grant (who was one of maybe three people who could claim to have Speirs as a  _friend_ ) and the troublesome trio on account of the gossip factor.

Buck was busy defending Speirs’ social awkwardness when they walked into the dorm lobby, but almost immediately, Muck split off from the group because he had spotted Lipton, up unusually late, watching re-runs of some historical drama on the communal television and curled up in a blanket on the opposite couch.

“Lip!” he cheered, throwing himself on the couch next to him and looking at Lipton with raised eyebrows and a suggestive look.

Malarkey and Penkala exchanged a look and followed him, clearly intending to keep him out of as much trouble as possible. Which, considering it was Skip Muck, and he could find trouble in a triple-locked, empty room, was probably not going to work out too well.

“So, tell us about  _the date_ ,” Muck grinned, the rest of the group gathering around the couch to hear the juicy details.

Lipton sighed, “It wasn’t a date,”

“Yes it was.” Muck insisted, “So tell us all about it. Was it cute? Is Speirs a good kisser?”

“Oh my God,” Grant moaned, somewhere behind Webster, “I’m going to bed.”

“Me too.” Christenson agreed.

_No surprise there_ , Webster thought. He was half convinced that there was something going on with Grant and Christenson.

“It wasn’t a date,” Lipton reiterated, shifting uncomfortably under the gaze of his peers. Webster didn’t really want to be involved in the interrogation, but at the same time he couldn’t resist the desire to know  _all the details_. “He took me to the hospital, and then I mostly just slept in the car.”

“You  _WHAT_?” Muck yelped, clearly horrified that Lipton, sweet summer child, had fallen asleep in the presence of the truly terrifying Speirs.

“Skip give it a rest. He’d been bleeding for over an hour.” Malarkey sighed, running a hand through his ginger hair.

“Yeah but  _Speirs_!” Muck was staring wide-eyed at Lipton, an over exaggerated look of incredulous respect reflected on his face, “Weren’t you, like, scared?”

Lipton almost snorted, “Why would I have been scared? Ron isn’t dangerous, he’s just… private.”

“ _RON_?” The trio yelled simultaneously, Malarkey and Penkala having left behind their masks of supposed maturity, now fully leaning forwards and invested in the conversation.

Webster raised an eyebrow. Literally no-one knew Speirs’ first name, except maybe Winters and the other seniors, and that was only due to Winters having a class list in order to assign dorm rooms, or having been at school with Speirs for four years.

To everyone else he was Speirs, or if they were feeling particularly daring, Sparky, the name that someone had given him way back when, before any of them knew him.

Lipton was making his annoyed face, which wasn’t too far off the face to pulled when he was humouring someone, and Webster decided that it was probably time to move on.

“I’m going to bed. Night guys,” He said abruptly, bringing his hand up to wave. The group looked up at him stood behind the couch. They smiled.

“Night, Web,” A chorus of them called out as he walked away and called for the elevator.

Standing in the cold elevator, he was suddenly very glad that Luz had waltzed into his dorm room that afternoon and dragged him out, that he’d forced him to shave, too. He felt cleaner, less like he was living in a continuous downward spiral of self-pity.

So what if Liebgott never wanted to speak to him again? Yeah, sure, Webster would miss the arguing, miss the make-up sex that always followed. But he wouldn’t miss being elbowed awake at three am, or feeling constantly put down by Liebgott’s insults.

He was going to finish this year, he was going to ace senior year, and he was going to fuck off to Harvard after that. He was going to have everything he’d been working towards since he was ten years old.

Only, Liebgott always found a goddamn way to pull him back in.

Taped to his door was a solitary piece of paper, obviously yanked from an Avengers notebook. Webster recognised it immediately. Liebgott never used plain notebook paper.

It was folded once, taped shut, and then to the door.

Webster pulled it down and let himself into his dorm.

Only when he knew he was alone did he allow himself to read it.

There was only one word written - scrawled, really:  _SORRY_.

Webster took a shuddering breath, leant back against the door, and sunk to the floor.

God  _fucking_  damn it, Liebgott.


	6. The One With Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Halloween party, things are cute, things are angsty, and George Luz is once again in everyone's business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sorry this took so long, and I must thank all of you for the kind comments and kudos and bookmarks! So thank you.
> 
> Also, updates are going to be slow from now on, I imagine. It's my final year of university so it's dissertation time (I laugh in the face of 9,000 words, but not the primary research I have to do, or the horrendous amount of reading I need to get done for it) and on top of that I have four other assignments due before christmas. 
> 
> So yes, enjoy the next chapter!

Winters had completely forgotten that he had hung a plastic skeleton over the elevator doors, so when he re-entered the lobby after dragging his boyfriend from their dorm into helping set up the rest of the Halloween party, he walked straight into it and ended up in a tangle of moulded plastic limbs as Nixon looked on and laughed.

It took him a lot longer to get untangled than he anticipated, largely because the pin holding it into the ceiling came un-pinned and brought down a neighbouring collection of fake spiderwebs and plastic spiders.

“Just put the food out, Lew.” He muttered, getting back into the elevator, still covered in cotton webs.

Nixon, already dressed for the party (he was a Pirate, it wasn’t that hard, and yes, he  _was_  aware that Luz would most definitely be singing  _Gay Pirates_  to him all night), started pulling party platters out of the several grocery bags Winters had left behind the couch. He didn’t think to check if any of them needed to be heated, he just trusted that his boyfriend would not buy anything that could cause even a minor issue.

He chuckled when he saw the six bottles of soda. They were highly unnecessary. Thy boys hardly ever mixed their drinks with soda (they drank it straight or they didn’t drink it at all), and they always had at least half of them left over.

Well, apparently Winters lived in hope that some of them might be a little more responsible this year.

* * *

 

Winters took his time coming back down to the party. Not necessarily because he was intent on making an entrance, or that his costume was particularly difficult to get into. No, it was more to do with the fact that he ended up staring at himself in the mirror trying to get the old paratrooper uniform to sit right, a picture of his great grandfather set up against the bathroom mirror for reference.

Eventually, after fiddling with buttons and the hat for an hour, he gave in and sighed, flipped the bathroom light off and took the elevator down to the lobby to join his friends and oversee the only school-sanctioned party the block ever had (minus christmas for those who didn’t decide to go home for the holidays).

The room was bouncing as Winters emerged from the elevator, thankfully missing the skeleton that had been re-hung in his absence,

The greeting he received was absolutely not the one he anticipated.

His friends mostly just stared at him.

Luz whistled, but not in an appreciative way as he was prone to do.

Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye exchanged looks.

Even Nixon, lying on the floor with his bottle of whiskey - sticker over the brand that said RUM - was gaping up at him.

“That’s uh… that’s a great costume.  _Sir_.” Luz coughed, glancing around at the rest of the group.

“Thank you, George,” Winters shifted uncomfortably under the attention the army dress greens were getting and wandered towards the buffet table (Nixon had done a good job setting it up, he was relieved to see) to allow everyone to get back to whatever they were doing before he arrived.

Behind him, he could hear Luz whispering, “Anyone else find that uniform familiar?”

Winters could almost hear the nods, and he definitely heard the uncomfortable agreements. He kept his back turned to them, pretending to be incredibly interested in the food that he himself had bought, right up until he felt the familiar pressure of a hand on his hip and someone say, “You look just like him in that, you know.”

His hand clenched around the plastic cup he didn’t realise he had picked up, turning his head slightly to evaluate Nixon’s dire attempt at a pirate costume.

“Yeah. I know.”

“It looks good on you,” Nixon grinned, gently pressing himself into Winter’s back and ghosting the back of his neck with his lips, “It would look great  _off_  of you too,”

Winters, while used to the affection, wasn’t up for Nixon trying to seduce him in the middle of a party.

“Are you trying to seduce me or my great grandfather here? Since I apparently look so like him.”

Nixon reluctantly pulled away, wearing his apology on his face.

“Only you,” And the grin was back on his lips.

Winters rolled his eyes and poured himself a drink (soda, not that he liked it all that much), mock-saluting Harry Welsh as he appeared, apparently dressed as him - complete with a knitted cardigan and ginger hair.

“Nice costume, Dick! Where’d you get that?” Harry tugged on the sleeve of Winter’s jacket.

“It’s  _authentic_ ,” Nixon supplied. He liked Harry. Harry liked to party almost as much as he did. That made them friends.

“It was my great grandfathers. Where did you get yours?” The cardigan, now that he thought about it, looked suspiciously like one he had hanging in his closet.

Harry grinned impishly, “Your dorm room. Luz did the hair for me,” He fluffed his hair dramatically and laughed, “You like?”

“Very accurate.”

“Yeah if you weren’t so short I might mistake you for Dick and take you home instead,” Nixon cackled, catching sight of Speirs across the room and motioning for him to join them.

Harry made a face, ”Sorry Lew, I have a date with Kitty tonight.”

“As long as that date isn’t in Easy Block then I’m very happy for you.” Winters said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. The rules were still the rules, it made no difference if it was a party or not. No girls in the dorm.

Nixon snorted, “Alright, enjoy your evening Harry. I have to see a man about a dog.” And he walked away, grabbing Speirs by the upper arm just as he was approaching the group, and dragging him back across the lobby. Speirs was caught quite off guard by this, and nearly toppled backwards from the force at which Nixon ambushed him.

Nixon decided this was a good idea, since he then dropped to the floor himself and patted the ground next to him, indicating that Speirs should sit down too. Speirs stared at him for a second, thinking that this was either going to go incredibly wrong or… well, incredibly wrong.

Nothing that Nixon would want to talk to him about could be good.

Still, he sat. He stole Nixon’s whiskey. He got drunk quickly and quietly, only half-listening to Nixon prattle on about something-or-other, only registering the conversation when Nixon’s tongue tripped over the word  _‘Lipton’_  or  _‘date’_.

Speaking of Lipton (not that Speirs was talking about Lipton because he clearly wasn't  _at all_ ), he showed up late to the party. Not even ‘I-spent-ages-looking-good’ late. More like, ‘what-the-fuck-has-George-Luz-dressed-me-as’ late.

He’d been trying to hide in the corner of the elevator, not entirely comfortable with Luz’s choice of costume for him. The jeans he was wearing were ripped so much he might as well have not been wearing any at all, the leather jacket had pointy spikes on the shoulders that kept jabbing him if he turned his face too far and Luz had sprayed his hair six different colours (that he wasn’t sure would ever come out fully). Oh, and he had a fake piercing in his lip that was both uncomfortable and, in his opinion, unsightly.

Since the elevator was in full sight of the entire lobby, Lipton could not hide at all. Instead, he tried to fake confidence, confidence which was broken just about as soon as he stepped out of the elevator and he saw everyone staring at him.

That fuelled the self-conscious feeling he was harbouring over the whole situation, so much so that he immediately considered just turning around, going back to his room, and staying there the whole night.

Who needs parties anyway, right? Haha.

“ _Car_ wooood,” A disembodied voice drawled somewhere to the right and on the floor. Looking that way, Lipton was rather dismayed to find Speirs lying on the floor (in full roman soldier costume, including the skirt, which was about the time that Lipton decided that Speirs had really great legs), looking up at Lipton, face soft and clearly very, very drunk.

He tried to get to his feet, kept tripping over the edges of his skirt, all the while mumbling something under his breath. When he finally stood up - after a harsh push from Nixon to get him there - Speirs stumbled over to Lipton, who had barely moved an inch the whole time, and proceeded to stare at him for the longest time.

There wasn’t much difference in height when they stood face-to-face like that, but Speirs was taller by just enough to justify Lipton having to raise his head to keep eye contact.

Before Lipton realised it - and he figured before Speirs knew he was even doing it - there were hands on either side of his face, gently tilting his head to the side to inspect the scar that was forming from the box incident.

Speirs hummed as his thumb glanced across the healing skin.

Lipton wasn’t sure what to do with himself, so he kind of just stood there and tapped his thigh with his fingertips and blushed and let Speirs touch his face all he wanted because that was probably easier and much more pleasant than, well, doing anything else.

Behind Speirs, still on the floor, Nixon was absolutely _howling_ with laughter. This was possibly the funniest thing he had seen since he had introduced Speirs to the idea that he’d gone on a date without knowing it.

Speirs instinctually dropped his hands when he heard the laughing, whipping around to glare at Nixon. It was about the least threatening glare Speirs had ever given, and it was only mostly because he was drunk, and only a little bit because he really didn’t have the energy to fight Nixon on this one. He knew too much.

The glaring did nothing, Nixon just kept laughing, now joined by Harry who had seen just enough to blow it up into something that it wasn’t, and Winters, who was stood idly by with a slightly raised eyebrow and a thin frown.

Speirs was not feeling good about this situation. He did not like being laughed at, even if he was drunk and he didn’t fully understand why Nixon was so  _involved_  in the not-crush he totally didn’t have on Carwood Lipton.

Ah, fuck.

Well at this point, Speirs was completely done with the situation and decided that it would be best if he just left.

He didn’t look at Lipton before he slammed the lobby doors open and disappeared into the night. It was all very dramatic, which only made Nixon laugh harder, especially when he saw Lipton still standing in the same spot, looking somewhat like a deer in headlights.

“You know,” Nixon started, taking a drink, “I’ve never seen a punk blush.” He raised his bottle towards Lipton.

“Is that what George dressed me as?” Lipton glanced down at himself. Hell, he didn’t know what a punk looked like outside of what Liebgott usually wore.

Winters had come to stand next to him, a friendly smile playing on his lips, and he put a hand on Lipton’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

Lipton’s face reddened again, “Yeah.”

“He’ll be up on the roof,” Winters jerked his head up slightly, indicating the up-ness of the roof and also apparently of Speirs, “If you want to talk to him, that is.”

* * *

 

“Bill. Bill! Are you seeing this?” Luz had planted himself on the far side of the room, almost in a corner. He figured this was an ideal place to survey the party to ensure he was involved in every possible drama that could occur.

As it was, he was viewing the Speirs-Lipton scene with great interest. While it had been established that there was a  _thing_  going on there, he had yet to actually observe any interaction between them himself. So this was fun, and he wanted Bill to observe, too.

Bill swatted aside the hand Luz was poking him in the ribs with, “Shut up, I think Doc just cracked an  _actual_  joke.”

“But Bill!”

“Don’t care,” Bill motioned for Toye to come over, at which point he quietly asked, “That song on the playlist?”

“The one you downloaded specifically for this kind of moment?” Toye nodded towards Roe, who had his back to them and was talking animatedly to Babe by one of the big windows. Bill admired that his  _other_  evil plan involved convincing Babe to dress as Frankenstein’s Monster, all the while knowing that Roe would dress as Frankenstein since he used the same costume every year.

Accidental couple costumes are _so_  in this year.

“That would be the one.” Bill rubbed his hands together with a smirk.

Luz wrinkled his nose and left Bill to his evil plan, deciding instead to infiltrate the game of  _Cards Against Humanity_  that someone had started in the middle of the room.

Bill ever-so casually walked up behind Roe - not too close, but just close enough for Babe to notice and give him a warning look. He signalled for Toye to switch the song and grinned.

Babe’s face instantly morphed into a look of abject horror at the scene unfolding around him, and Roe was seemingly oblivious to the chaos behind him because he was trying to explain to Babe why his fear of zombies was irrational since, scientifically speaking, they would not last long due to either infecting or killing their only food source almost immediately.

Bill and Toye were aggressively air-guitaring to  _Bad Case Of Loving You_ and miming the words, apparently trying to serenade Babe.

“ _Doctor doctor, gimme the news, I got a bad case of loving yooooou,_ ” Bill was trying to air guitar and point at Roe at the same time and it was all very ridiculous and Babe was both annoyed, mortified and amused all at once. He was also beginning to think he should have knocked Bill the fuck out last week when he had the damn chance.

“Heffron? Heffron are even listening to me?” Roe asked, his face twisted into the concern that he so often wore.

“Huh?” Babe’s attention was switching back and forth between Roe and Bill and Toye so quickly that his head was spinning.

Roe lifted his arm and pressed the back of his hand against Babe’s forehead, “You’re warm. You got a headache? Here,” He moved to help Babe to the couch, the hand that had been on his forehead now sliding the length of his arm, his fingers brushing over the skin of Babe’s palm.

The entire time he still had his back to Bill and Toye, who were still happily air-guitaring, except now they weren’t even paying attention to Babe or Roe, and were just amusing themselves by singing to each other loudly and off-key.

When he had Babe sat on the couch, he looked him over and nodded to himself, “I’ll get you some water,”

Then he left, and Babe shivered, and Bill noticed that he was alone, so over to the couch he jumped, sliding himself into the tiny space left between Babe and Smokey Gordon who was enthralled in the current game of Cards Against Humanity that Luz was deliberating over ( _What’s The Most Emo?_ Among the choices being _Harry Potter Erotica_ ,  _An Unexpected Finger In The Anus_  and  _Webster_ written on one of the blank cards).

“So!” He crowed, slapping his knees and grinning at a flushed Babe, “It’s going well!”

Babe frowned and rolled his eyes, “Bill, he ain’t even a real doctor.”

Bill shrugged. The song was still appropriate, he felt.

“And yet you still got a bad case of lovin’ him.”

Babe shoved Bill lightly, “Fuck off.”

But he still grinned when Roe came back with a glass of water, and even wider when Roe’s mouth curled into a smile as he handed him the glass and perched on the arm of the couch and just sat there, silently watching Babe watch the game.

Bill happened to be very proud of his efforts to force them together, since he patted Babe on the knee (condescendingly, Babe would argue), wriggled his way off the couch, and shot Roe an exaggerated warning look that was only part-playful.

“Play nice, boys,” He smirked, wandering off to re-claim Toye from Hoobler and Tipper, who appeared to be having an in-depth conversation while huddled around Hoobler’s phone.

Roe exhaled sharply through his nose. Bill could pretend that he wasn’t trying to get them together all he liked, but Roe recognised the game, and he had bets that Babe did too.

And yes, he  _had_  been listening when Toye changed the song.

He risked a glance at Babe and found him staring back. They both reddened and quickly looked away, but neither missed the slight smiles that crept up on both their faces.

* * *

 

Liebgott tried four different things to make himself stop thinking about Webster.

He tried just not speaking to him. That didn’t work on account of their German teacher pairing them up for group work (Liebgott was the best, and Webster… well, his German left much to be desired), so Liebgott took to insulting him in German under his breath and hoping that Webster would get the hint. He did, and he clammed up, and he wouldn’t look at Liebgott for the rest of the class. And that hurt way more than it should have considering the entire thing was initiated by Liebgott.

He tried deleting his number, removing him from Facebook and trashing all of the dumb pictures he had saved of him from his phone. But Liebgott had the number memorised and re-entered it into his phone immediately, the pictures sat in the recently deleted folder for around thirty minutes before being recovered and the facebook de-friending… that couldn’t be reversed without looking like more of a dick that he already did. Whatever, no great loss, just less political petitions and shark links on his timeline.

He tried loud music and angry music and sad music and at one point, he tried the shit that Nixon listened to when he had a hangover. Nothing was angry enough, nothing had the right words or the right beat. He still tried, late at night when he had an excess of  _feelings_ or something.

Finally, he tried ignoring Webster’s existence entirely. Not speaking to him, not looking at him, not even acknowledging his presence. That failed even more spectacularly, as evidenced by his predicament during the Halloween party.

Liebgott had drunk at least a quarter of his (limited) alcohol supply before even showing up in the lobby, dressed as an early incarnation of the Joker.

The general consensus of the night was ‘fuck it’.

Anyway, the ignoring of one David K. Webster? Failing miserably. It was all Liebgott could do just to  _not look at him_ , but he would still hear his voice even if he was staring at the floor, or hear his laugh when he was staring at the ceiling, so he’d given in and slumped to the floor near the doors, dejectedly watching Webster have fun without him.

What made it even worse was that Webster was  _also_  dressed as the Joker, although by the looks of it he’d gone for Heath Ledger’s version, since it was the only one Liebgott had managed to get Webster to watch.

Clearly, Webster had missed the memo that _‘we should go to the halloween party as the Joker and Harley Quinn’_ meant that Webster was supposed to dress as  _goddamn Harley Quinn._

He’d been watching Webster play Cards Against Humanity for nearly half an hour, and while it had started terribly for him (he wasn’t used to games and his humour was a little… off) he’d picked it up quickly and had the most black cards out of any of them. Luz had even decided that his answer to  _What’s The Most Emo?_  - which was the card they’d actually written  _Webster_  on - was the funniest and threw the black card at him with a cackle.

That was even worse.

Webster had _friends_ , and Liebgott was closed-off and angry and not always that fun to be around.

Except! Chuck Grant was his friend, and he’d been watching Liebgott closely, initially confused at the attention he was throwing away on Webster, but then understanding dawned as he caught Webster throw a guilty glance his way when the  _Liebgott_  card came up in the game and when Liebgott tried to turn away but locked his eyes with Webster’s instead… well, he knew what was going on then.

So he’d tapped Christenson on the arm and pointed at Liebgott, then when Christenson had nodded, understanding words he hadn’t even said, he marched over to the wall Liebgott was occupying and sat down next to him.

“You okay buddy?”

Liebgott took a drink, “No.”

Grant sighed. Sometimes, just sometimes, being friends with Liebgott was a task and a half. He patted Liebgott’s knee sympathetically, and watched him stare absently after Webster.

“So you were screwing him?”

“Yeah,” Liebgott nearly choked on his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “But it wasn’t like that.”

God, the  _tone_  of his voice. So sad. So pity-me-I’m-emotionally-fragile.

Grant raised an eyebrow. If it ‘wasn’t like that’ what was his thing with Webster like?

“What do you mean?”

Liebgott shrugged, looking at the floor.

“I loved him.”

That was literally the last thing Grant had expected to hear tumble from Liebgott’s mouth. He’d expected hate sex, maybe even expected a summer fling. Not love, he’d never expected love.

And he was pretty sure, judging from the look on Liebgott’s face - one of almost-horror, definitely surprise and a whole lot of regret - he hadn’t expected it either.

It was like seeing a light switch flip on, because Liebgott abruptly stood up, wobbled slightly, took three steps towards when Webster was sitting surrounded by friends, then changed his mind and made for the elevator.

Grant shook his head, thinking that his friend was probably more messed up about whatever had ended between him and Webster than he was letting on.

Webster had tried to edge away from the game when he saw Liebgott leave, looking like he meant to follow him, but Grant shot him a look that said  _don’t_  and he quietly slunk back into his seat, swallowing thickly and casting his eyes back to the floor.

Everyone was doing a lot of floor-staring these days.

* * *

 

Winters was ruminating on how quickly the night had wound down; it was not long after eleven, and they had already lost half of the dorm.

Some people, like Speirs and Lipton, or Liebgott, had never returned to the party after their abrupt exits. Some - Webster, Johnny Martin, and Cobb among them - had gone back to their rooms when Luz had suggested watching a horror film and playing a drinking game.

The rest had cheered and gone to find pillows, blankets and duvets, making a sort of squishy nest in the lobby on which they had spread out and gotten comfortable. Most of them had even forgotten the rules of the drinking game they were supposed to be playing.

Shifty and Tab were lying between the couches, Shifty’s head resting on Tab’s chest as his fingers carded though his hair. Tab kept whispering, Shifty kept giggling like a schoolgirl, Luz kept kicking them both and ordering them to drink whenever the film hit something they were supposed to drink to. They didn’t, and they disappeared halfway through the film, still half-covered in toilet paper from their impromptu mummy costumes.

Bill had commandeered an entire couch and fixed it so that he had Toye on one side of him, Babe on the other, and Roe squished uncomfortably on the end. With all the blankets over them, and the hollering that Bill was doing over drinking at the correct time, most wouldn’t have noticed the way Babe screwed his eyes shut every time he heard a zombie moan on screen, wouldn’t have noticed how Roe’s hand curled around Babe’s in comfort early into the film and never uncurled.

Winters noticed.

The half of the dorm that was still there, half-asleep… they were good kids. Winters found himself thinking about graduation over half a year away, when he’d have to leave.

He’d be leaving this, easy nights spent with his friends (and yes, his boyfriend too, though that was a whole other issue they hadn’t talked about), be leaving a place he’d called home, more than his actual home, for four years.

He already knew he’d be leaving Lipton in charge of the dorm. Sure, Webster would undoubtedly be valedictorian for the upcoming senior class, but he didn’t want the responsibility of running the dorm, probably couldn’t handle it even if he did. Lipton would do the job just fine.

He just didn’t know what he, personally, was going to do after graduating. The half-finished college applications on his desk were daunting, the looks on the juniors faces every time a senior yelled about college was daunting, the thought of abandoning his boys was… unthinkable, sad as it sounded.

Nixon nudged him with an elbow and tipped his head towards the elevator. Winters gave him a soft smile, not that he needed it. Nixon would be able to tell what he was thinking without facial cues, without words. It had always been like that with them.

They untangled themselves from the copious amount of blankets, collected the ones they recognised as their own, and made for the elevator.

“Goodnight boys,” Winters called over his shoulder.

Luz’s head popped up from a pile of pillows in the middle of the room, “Goodnight, sir.” He mock-saluted and dropped his head again just as the doors to the elevator closed on them

* * *

 

“Frank, why can’t you sleep in your  _own room_?” Luz complained, rolling across his bed and kicking Perconte in the process.

“Do you hear that, George?” Perconte asked, irritated, referencing the bumping beat from above them, “That’s the sound of my roomie being an asshole.”

Perconte was apparently not privy to the information Luz was, and just assumed that Liebgott’s sadness-induced music blaring was him being an asshole rather than, say, a sad human being.

Luz briefly considered telling Perconte what the deal was, but he was definitely still not in the business of outing people.

Instead, he threw the covers back, dragging half of them from Perconte at the same time, and declared, “I’m going to sort this out.”

Perconte hummed, pulling the covers back up to his chin and closing his eyes.

Since it was nearly one on the morning, the halls were silent, except for George Luz stomping to the elevator in his  _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ pyjamas and slamming the call button repeatedly. He could still hear Liebgott’s music, and he really didn't understand how he was the only one that seemed to be doing anything about it. At the very least he expected Johnny Martin in 306 to have gone around and shut him up.

But no, Luz stood there banging on the door of 307, not a single soul in sight. He was grumbling to himself and re-folding his arms six different ways, waiting for Liebgott to open the door.

When he finally did, Luz could see why it had taken him a long time - his eyes were rimmed with red, and not from the Joker makeup he’d been wearing (though a lot of it was still on his face, just smudged up as if he’d been lying face-down on a pillow). He’d been crying, which was kind of sad because Luz was pretty sure he’d never seen any of the boys in the dorm cry before .

Wait, that was a lie. He’d seen Bill and Toye cry before when they tried to prove their manliness by watching chick-flicks and they’d ended up crying like babies because  _they were best friends, George! And then she died!_

“Jesus Christ, Joe.” Luz mumbled, taking in the terrible sight of a half-dressed, sniffling Liebgott, who then proceeded to scrunch up his face and stagger off to the left, leaving the door open.

Luz slipped inside, softly closing the door behind him and leaning up against it. He could hear Liebgott throwing up in the bathroom.

“You need to sort this out, man.” He sighed, kicking off of the door and coming to rest a hand on the doorframe of the bathroom, peering into the brightly lit room.

Liebgott twitched his head towards Luz, but remained kneeling over the toilet, “What?”

“Your thing with Web.”

Liebgott groaned and Luz thought he was going to be sick again. Instead, he leaned back on his heels and rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles.

“I tried, he won’t talk to me.”

Luz snorted, “You haven’t been trying very hard then,” He leaned into the room and grabbed Liebgott around the arm, hauling him to his feet, “Time for bed. And turn this shit off, we can hear it downstairs.”

Luz managed to get Liebgott into bed without incident, and even managed to turn off the music playing through a collection of speakers on his desk. As his fingers brushed over CD case sitting beside the laptop, Luz took a risk, “He loved you, you know. He told me.”

Luz didn't even have to turn around to know the look Liebgott was wearing when he made a noise at the back of his throat and muttered, “I loved him.”

“So why did you fight so much?”

“I just… I don’t know how to do the happy couple thing,” Liebgott had wrapped himself tightly in his blanket, so that only the stop of his head was visible and his voice was muffled, “He’s too good for me. I was always waiting for him to realise it and… and leave me.” His voice almost cracked at the end, because Webster  _did_  leave him, and fine, maybe it was because he got aggressive and said things he didn’t mean to, but he was still the one that got told to get the fuck out.

It was like seven different nightmares had come true in the space of one argument.

“Fuck’s sake,” Luz rolled his eyes, leaving the room and patting Liebgott on the head on the way out, “Go to sleep, Joe.”

George Luz had a  _fantastic_  plan to fix this issue.


	7. The One With The Baseball Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's 8,352 words of baseball game, sinning, and accidents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *singing Make It Up As You Go by Plain White T's*

“Has anyone seen the boombox?” Luz asked, hovering around the elevator doors in the lobby, where half of the dorm had turned out to work on their game plan for the upcoming ‘friendly’ baseball match against a visiting school.

Buck had spread a pitch map on one of the tables, with a tablet set up next to it showing the visiting teams positions, statistics and the lineup they used last season. He took baseball  _very_  seriously, and he was  _very_ serious about winning.

Winters had set himself down with them. Though he didn’t play baseball, he was both the team manager and their biggest cheerleader, and always came up with interesting and effective gameplays.

(Toccoa had only ever been beaten at baseball once, when someone in their infinite wisdom had put Sobel in charge.)

Winters turned to face Luz and said, “In the basement,”

“Shit I hate it down there, why do you think I haven’t worn clean clothes for three weeks?” Luz complained, pressing the elevator call button.

“Because you put me in charge of your laundry so you didn’t have to go in the basement and I haven’t done it?” Malarkey asked, although this was more of a statement than a question, considering this was exactly what had happened and they all knew it. In fact, Malarkey hadn’t even bothered to lift his eyes from the field map, or the lineup cards - whichever he was looking at - which was pretty much indicative of a rhetorical question.

“Exactly. Has anyone checked for spiders recently?”

Winters sighed, good-naturedly of course, but Luz was being melodramatic, since the basement was in no way dark, scary or otherwise spider-infested. And the only reason he needed to go down there was to retrieve the boombox, which would allow him to be even  _more_  dramatic at a later date.

“Harry did his laundry this morning and reported it as spider-free. You’re safe, George.”

“Sweet,” Luz said, bounding back into the elevator, intent on finding the ever elusive boombox in the depths of the laundry and storage rooms.

Funnily, Luz wasn’t scared of the basement. He didn’t even not-like the basement. The basement was full of cool old stuff left over from previous students going back decades. An impressive collection of christmas and halloween decorations, and various other more random items. There was even an old chandelier knocking around in one of the storage rooms, an indication of days gone by in the dorms, when Toccoa was more bourgeois fee-paying than ‘get the grades and you’re in’.

Luz was always finding cool stuff down there.

And spiders; he was always finding spiders.

Bypassing the laundry room, Luz headed straight for the first storage room, which they used frequently to store… well,  _stuff_. It wasn’t the cool old stuff Luz liked looking through. It was just the plain old boring junk that they used every year for sports games and parties. It also happened to be a great place to hide contraband, since the Powers That Be rarely ventured into the basement.

The boombox was, of course, sitting on one of the shelves right inside the door, next to last years’ baseball uniforms (this year would be seeing new uniforms with an improved design, thank god) and an unusually full box of Hershey chocolate bars.

Luz chuckled and grabbed the handle of the boombox with one hand, and wrapped his other arm around the box of chocolates, intent on distributing some pre-game cheer along with his traditional pre-game motivation. Hooking the door closed with his foot on the way out, he made for the elevator again.

His friends were right where he had left them, all gathered around the map in the centre of the room. Liebgott was the first to notice Luz’s extra baggage, immediately exclaiming “Oh, Hershey bars!”

This outburst caused the rest of the baseball team and company to notice his cargo, and look in his direction, with pleading eyes.

“Oh no,” Luz deadpanned, dropping the boombox to the floor and sliding his other arm under the box. Then he grinned and carried them to towards the group, swatting away Liebgott’s hands as he passed, “Ah ah ah! One each!” he scolded as Malarkey reached out to snag one and Toye shoved his hand into the box, pulling out three bars.

Toye reluctantly replaced two of the bars.

“I see you found what you were looking for,” Winters quipped from the couch, having never moved to retrieve his own chocolate bar, but looking pointedly at the discarded stereo, “Does it still have the tape in it?”

“Mhmpf,” Luz mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate, his words indistinguishable. The tape was the only one they had, so it never left the player. Luz dreaded the day it magnetised or came un-spooled and Easy Block would have to resort to digital methods of motivation.

Winters nodded, looking back the notes he’d been writing on potential gameplay, “As long as you’re ready for Sunday’s game.”

* * *

Sunday rolled around quicker than any of them expected, and it rolled around colder than they desired. When Luz managed to drag himself out of bed and throw back the curtains that he hadn’t quite closed right the night before, all he saw was grey skies, and he groaned and shuffled out into the kitchenette to knock on Malarkey’s door, not pausing before swinging it open without invitation.

“Malark get up, it’s baseball day,” He yawned, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust once more to the darkness in the room.

“Yeah I’ll be out in a minute,” Came the reply, muffled by the comforter Malarkey seemed to have cocooned around himself.

Luz looked up the bunk beds, wondering why neither Muck or Penkala had woken up, and found only one of them occupied.

“Where’s Muck?”

Another muffled response came from the depths Malarkey’s comforter, and suddenly a hand shot out from the top, almost clipping Malarkey in the face.

“I’m here!” And after some wriggling, and laughing from Malarkey, Muck’s head popped out over the top, hair sticking out at all angles and face flushed, “Yep, I’m here.”

Luz blinked, trying to remember a time when this was an unusual thing to encounter.

“If you were going to be sharing beds anyway, why did you bother with this monstrosity?” He tapped on the triple bunk bed that he’d helped build the first week back.

Malarkey grinned and nonchalantly looped an arm under Muck’s head, “Sometimes you need space and sometimes you don’t,” He said cryptically.

“Alright. Whatever that means. The weather looks shit by the way,” Luz turned to hunt out a shower, ignoring the calls for him to shut the bedroom door behind him. They’d be forced to get up that way.

He stopped briefly outside of the bathroom, listening for Malarkey getting up and moving around. Sure enough there was a thump and a moan, and then Luz glimpsed Malarkey through the open door, hopping around on one foot trying to get his boxers back on.

He chuckled and shut the bathroom door, locking it and twisting the shower on.

The water was lukewarm at best, arctic cold at worst, though this was nothing new. Given the time, he imagined that half of the dorm was in the shower at the same time as him, lowering the pressure and fucking with the temperature.

Hopefully Winters wasn’t running a goddamn bath yet. That would  _really_  mess with the water.

When he was finished, Luz opened the door to let the steam out, and found Muck waiting there impatiently, arms crossed and drumming his fingers against his skin.

“Thank God, what took you so long? I gotta pee so bad right now,” And he pushed past Luz, kicking him in the shin to move him out.

“I’m going, I’m going, sheesh,” Luz rolled his eyes, vacating the bathroom, his pyjamas in hand.

Malarkey was stood over the breakfast counter, aggressively and repeatedly shoving a spoon into his bowl of cereal, already dressed in his new baseball uniform.

This year had seen the introduction of new emerald green jerseys, and this shade of green paired with the intense ginger shade of Malarkey’s hair, made him look like a christmas tree.

“What did lucky charms ever do to you?” Luz joked, crossing the living area to get back to his room.

Malarkey stopped assaulting his breakfast and looked up, “That plan you’ve been working on,” He started slowly, “Is it today?”

Luz nodded, standing in the door to his room and rubbing at his wet hair with a towel, “I intend for it to be put into action after the game,”

“But you won’t tell us what it is.”

“You don’t need to know what it is. You guys don’t have a part to play,” Luz felt kind of bad about that. He wanted to be able to tell his roomies all about his magic plan to get Webster and Liebgott back together, but their services were not needed, and he didn’t want to risk his friends getting hurt, since he figured that The Plan may feasibly end in someone getting punched in the face.

Malarkey rolled his eyes and went back to his cereal, “Whatever,” He muttered and then called out to Muck, who was still in the bathroom, “How long do you want to take in there, huh?”

“I’m coming, don’t get your panties in a twist!”

Luz saw the corners of Malarkey’s lips twitch up in a smile.

“Good, it’s your turn to wake up Alex.”

“Fuck, I hate doing that,” Muck grumbled, finally emerging from the bathroom, “He bites, you know. How did we end up with a biter?”

“You weren’t complaining about the biting yesterday,”

Muck had made his way across the room, grinning the whole time, and knocked his fist against Malarkey’s shoulder. In return, Malarkey tugged on the collar of Muck’s shirt, revealing a hickey just below his collar bone, as if to illustrate his point about the biting.

Luz sighed. He knew all about the workings of the Trio’s relationship now. Between them in the next bedroom, and Webster and Liebgott pre-disaster nextdoor, he was always overhearing  _someone_  up to no good. In fact, he was beginning to think it might be worth it to just move in with Cobb or even  _Speirs_ upstairs.

Not that Speirs would let him, but it would have been a quieter existence at least.

Even as he was pondering this and going about his pre-game routine in his room, Luz could hear Muck and Malarkey whispering to each other about his plan and how they wanted in on it. If they could just keep it together until after the game, all would, hopefully, be revealed.

“Christ, next time there’s something for me to fix, I’ll involve you, alright?” He yelled, lugging the boombox into the living area, and scowling at Muck and Malarkey.

They stared at him wide-eyed for a moment. It wasn’t often that Luz lost his cool.

“I appreciate that,” Muck said, and sped off into their bedroom to avoid the situation.

Malarkey grimaced upon seeing Luz’s murderous glare, “Sorry,” he said, twirling his spoon in the dregs of milk left over from his breakfast.

Luz lost his deadly glower, dropping his shoulders and rubbing a hand over his face. He hated snapping or yelling at his friends, and it seemed especially mean to do it to his roomies who just wanted to help. But sometimes everyone forgot that Luz, underneath his pranks and jokes and invasions of privacy, had some seriously deep-seated control issues and a surprisingly disturbing sense of humour. Perks of being one of the oft-overlooked middle children in an insanely large family, he guessed.

Thinking about it, Luz decided that he should probably go to therapy or something.

“Yeah, yeah, me too. I just don’t know if it’s going to work.” He kicked the side of the couch, just to let off some steam. Where he had originally thought that his plan to get Liebgott and Webster back together was like,  _the_ greatest thing since sliced bead, now he was having second thoughts.

There were too many flaws, too many opportunities for something to go wrong, and too much chance of someone getting the timings wrong or an outside influence interfering.

And yet, it was the only plan he had. And he’d already paid Cobb thirty bucks to go along with it, so it was happening.

“Well,” Luz smiled tightly, “I believe we have a baseball game to win.”

Malarkey smiled and nodded.

Suddenly, there was an undignified yelp from the second bedroom, followed by Muck shrieking, “Ouch! You bit me again!”

Malarkey and Luz both raised an eyebrow at each other and descended into fits of laughter. What a wonderful start to the morning they were all having.

* * *

Winters had the baseball team lined up in the lobby for a final run-down of their strategy when Luz arrived with his boombox.

Speirs stood at the head of the line, flanked on either side by Talbert and Buck. Malarkey, Bill and Toye stood beside Buck, and Shifty, Bull and Liebgott grouped together next to Talbert.

Webster, also in a baseball uniform, stood just right of Liebgott, apparently trying to look inconspicuous. He was the relief pitcher, and he sucked at it, but he was marginally better than anyone else in the dorm. Luz could tell just by the look on his face that he was praying for rain so they wouldn’t have to play, or at the very least for a freak accident to knock him out of the game for the next year.

The rest of the dorm had turned out in support, and stood behind the team, as invested in the game as those playing.

“Does everyone know what they’re doing?” Winters asked, eyes raking over the boys in front of him. Everyone was nodding, all except Babe. He was stood at the back of the group muttering about not understanding baseball one bit, with Roe next to him trying to stifle his laughter.

Winters nodded once, accepting the silence as confirmation, and turned to Luz. 

“George, if you would do the honours,” He gestured to the boombox.

“With pleasure,” Luz grinned, hiking the stereo up into his arms and pressing play, and the first notes of  _Eye Of The Tiger_  blasted out, nearly drowning out the cheers of the older boys who were familiar with the routine.

(Babe, Skinny and Janovec, who had gathered at the back of the group exchanged terrified glances, having no idea what was happening.)

“We have four minutes to get to the field. Let’s go!” Winters called, leading the procession out of the dorm. The older boys fell easily into an almost military-style march, the baseball team and Luz with the boombox leading them out.

They must have been a formidable sight, walking onto the baseball pitch backed with an eighties rock anthem and a bunch of boys air-drumming and hollering behind them. At least, from the looks on their opponent’s faces, Luz guessed that they looked pretty badass.

He was pretty sure if he looked over to Speirs he would be scowling, which was enough to make anyone want to cry in fear even on their best days.

They lined up once more, presenting a united front, just as the last notes of the song sounded. Luz flicked the switch, rewinding the tape in preparation for the next game, and let the boombox drop to his side.

Winters broke the line and met with what Luz assumed to be the other team’s manager. He didn’t look much older than Winters, and at best guess he was probably a senior too. Dark hair, dark eyes, he held out his hand and Winters shook it, unsmiling.

“John Basilone, Parris School.” The stranger introduced.

“Richard Winters, Toccoa.” Winters didn’t smile, or nod, or in any way show that he had any emotion over the imminent game.

“Here’s our batting lineup,” Basilone held out a piece of paper. Winters took it in one hand while reaching into his pocket with the other to hand over their own lineup.

“You’ll be batting first,” Winters said, turning to the group and giving a quick gesture with two fingers, indicating that the team should take their places on the field. They immediately moved to take up their positions on the pitch, leaving the rest of the dorm to find seats in the dugout so they could watch the game.

The dugout was something along the lines of an old wooden shack with a cut-away front, painted forest green, and it lived behind a chain-link fence that came to waist height. There were two rows of wooden benches, the rear row elevated for easier viewing. The boys shuffled in, picking seats as they went. While most of them fought for the back row, Webster leant himself on the fence to watch.

Luz watched him fold and re-fold his arms over the top of the fence, eventually settling on resting his elbows on the metal and clasping his hands together in front of him. He wondered how long he would stand there.

“Where’s Sink? Wasn’t he supposed to be here?” Martin asked, looking across the field to the identical dugout that housed the supporters for the Parris team. They didn’t seem to have that many, though that was unsurprising since they had apparently driven across from South Carolina on a five hour journey. Bringing more than the players would have required a bigger bus and more money. See, everything came down to money in the end, even education. And ball games.

“He’ll be here,” Lipton assured, bringing a hand up to his eyes to shield them from the light as he looked across the field to the main campus building.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, just as the Parris team were lining up to start the game, Headmaster Sink came meandering across the expense of the field to join with the representative from Parris in the opposite dugout.

He called something across to Winters, who nodded at Basilone, and then at Bull, who was pitching, to start the game.

It turned out that Parris had an excellent team, and they seemed to give the game their all, despite it being a pre-season friendly. The only problem they had came from Liebgott who seemed to be particularly ornery that morning.

Parris’ seventh batter was having trouble actually hitting the ball, and Liebgott was snarking off about it at first base. Since Toccoa had commandeered the dugout nearest third base, they couldn’t hear what he was saying from across the field, but they could all see him taunting the batter.

His mouth was moving, which was generally a sure sign that something bad was coming out of it.

“Shut up, Joe,” Grant hissed from his seat behind Luz. Luz reasoned that Grant was getting the same view as he was - not the batter in question (who looked a tad miserable but relatively unfazed), but another of the boys on the field, who had already run, and appeared to be practically vibrating in rage at Liebgott’s verbal assault.

_Three, two, one…_ Luz counted backwards.

“WHAT THE FUCK,”

_Bingo._

The boy, previously humming with unchecked rage, ripped off his gloves and threw them into the dust at his feet, striding across the pitch before any of his team could stop him.

“Shit,” Grant’s disembodied voice whispered.

“Hoosier, don’t!” The batter called, dropping his bat and reaching out with one hand, as if that was going to stop the impending confrontation.

Hoosier, ignoring both the pleas of the batter and the calls from Basilone on the other side of the field, reached Liebgott and immediately grabbed at his collar, pulling his face parallel with his own and saying something that none of them could hear.

Liebgott smirked in response, bringing his hands up flat and pushing against Hoosier’s chest, forcing him back a step. There were jeers from the Parris dugout, and Liebgott made the mistake of twisting to look at them. The next thing any of them saw was Liebgott on the floor, clutching his nose, and Hoosier shaking out his right hand.

Liebgott turned to the dust and spat, grimacing when he saw drops of blood on the ground. Immediately, he launched himself back on to his feet, arms outstretched as if to go straight for Hoosier’s throat. Winters moved at the same moment that Basilone did, taking long, quick strides to the centre of the diamond. Basilone arrived first - by which time Liebgott had managed at least one decent swing at Hoosier and was going for his second - and grabbed Hoosier around the waist, hauling him off to the dugout. Liebgott was persistent, and followed them, arms flailing as he continued his barrage of abuse, right up until Winters grabbed his arm and towed him backwards to their own dugout.

He flung Liebgott down onto the bench and gave him his best no-nonsense face, “Stop.”

Liebgott stopped cursing the other boy out and looked up, a thin line of blood dripping down his chin where Hoosier’s swing had split his lip. Winters motioned for Roe and the first aid kit to come and clean him up.

“If I put you back out on the field, you cannot start another fight. If you do, I’ll have you taken off the team for good.” Winters knelt in front of him, using his most paternal and authoritative voice. It was his number one weapon in case of fights or emergencies, since all of the boys naturally ceded to him when he used it, and it seemed to give him the ability to instantly calm any situation.

Liebgott may still have been masking pure unadulterated fury, but he nodded, the threat of being removed entirely from the baseball team pushing him into line. Winters patted his knee, pushed off his heels and stood up, re-joining Nixon at the side of the dugout. Webster slid into his place with the first aid kit he’d apparently liberated from Roe, avoiding direct eye contact with Liebgott as he ripped open an alcohol wipe and dabbed at the broken skin on his lip.

Liebgott hissed through his teeth, his fingers pawing at the fabric of his baseball pants, either fighting the urge to hit Webster away or pull him closer.  
Luz couldn’t decide which was funnier, the pathetic way Liebgott was trying to keep Webster at arms length, or all the little ways in which his body language gave away how much he clearly wanted to reach out and touch him.

When he was done, Webster scrunched up the wipe and stood up, walking away from Liebgott without saying a word, or even meeting his eye. Luz sucked at his teeth and whistled lowly, hoping that this didn’t mean that his plan would be spoiled by Webster rather than Liebgott (who he suspected would be the one to reject the plan out of hand and fuck up all of his hard work).

During this time, Winters had met back up with Basilone on the pitch and had been having a seemingly apologetic conversation, which ended with another handshake, and Winters heading back to the dugout to order Liebgott back onto the field.

“You’re back on. Don’t trash-talk Leckie again. I won’t stop Hoosier if he decides to swing for you again.”

“Who the fuck is Leckie?” Liebgott growled, picking up his discarded mitt and shoving it back on, making for his original position at first base.

“The batter you tried to pick a fight with before his boyfriend defended his honour,” Nix cut in, grinning. Liebgott looked over his shoulder and shrugged, flashing a wicked grin at Leckie, who was still standing at the home plate.

“Play on,” Winters waved a hand, pushing the game into play once more.

This time, Leckie hit the ball, which seemed to be an achievement. Even if Speirs caught it in centre field, threw it to Toye on second base and tagged him out.

That marked three outs for Parris, signalling a change-over of teams. It also meant that Bull had pitched their entire inning, leaving Webster out of the game; a fact that he was evidently thrilled with, since he smiled and retired to the benches, giving up all pretence of interest in the sport, and pulling out a book from the backpack he’d brought with him.

The team re-grouped at the dugout, fishing water bottles out of their bags and beginning to line up at the chain-link fence for their turn to bat.

Babe had gotten increasingly excited as the game had worn on, despite still not understanding the rules at all. He’d taken to yelling incorrect, objectively absurd things in the general direction of the field: “Tackle him! The goal is  _right there_ how did you miss it? Ruuuuuun!”

Roe was sitting next to him, trying to hold in his laughter, “Babe, that’s not how baseball works,”

“I know,” Babe grinned, leaning back on the bench and then springing back up, staring at Roe’s profile where he’d turned to watch the game. “Hey Gene, you called me Babe,” He said dopily, grin turning into a shy smile and a bite of his lip.

“I did?” Roe asked, confused for a second, “When?”

“Just now,”

“Babe,” Roe repeated, testing the name, feeling the way it rolled off his tongue. It felt weird. It felt good. “I guess I did.”

“ _Babe_ ,” Babe mocked, imitating Roe’s Cajun accent and slipping too much of his own Philadelphia one in with it and laughing.

“Heffron, watch the goddamn game.” Roe said, looking back out onto the field, acting unimpressed. Babe continued to laugh.

Down their line, Winters and Nixon had finally taken seats next to Lipton, assured that Liebgott wouldn’t be instigating any more fights during this inning.

Speirs was their fourth batter, tasked with driving everyone home; he hit hard, and ran fast, and in this case he hit the ball clean over the outfielders, allowing him a clean home run. Nixon had seen him achieve this multiple times before, but this time he watched for everyone else's’ reactions.

He nudged Winters lightly, tipping his head to their left where Lipton was sat, following Speirs’ movements with rapt attention.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and typed up the heart eyes emoji, flashing the screen at Winters and once again nodding suggestively at Lipton. Winters shook his head, smiling, and returned his attention to the game, where Speirs was sliding onto the home plate.

A cheer erupted from their dugout; the first home run of the game.

Speirs sauntered back into the dugout, cheeks red from the wind, and motioned for Nixon to shift along on the bench so he could commandeer the seat between him and Lipton. His water bottle was under the seat, and he snagged it before sitting down, smiling a rare smile that was neither scary or uncomfortable.

No-one said anything as he leant back into the bench, Lipton unconsciously mirroring his movements and leaning back too. They shared a brief smile before the crack of a baseball hitting wood pulled their attentions back to the game.

All around them, their dorm mates shared incredulous looks, eyes ping-ponging from the pair to their friends around them as if to say ‘ _what the fuck_ ’?

They ended the game after that inning - the sky very nearly opened up on them, a rumble and a crack of lightning filled the grey expanse, sending all of their eyes to the sky in horror. Skinny almost fell off the bench that he jumped so high in shock.

“They’re having lunch with us in the cafeteria,” Winters commented, standing up, looking down at Nixon.

“Oh God, we’re subjecting them to Sobel?”

“Apparently so,” He said, turning to look at the rest of Easy, “Pack up, we’re entertaining Parris in the cafeteria until their bus gets here.”

A collective groan rang out amongst the boys. Most of them just wanted to spend the rest of their Sunday in peace, not entertaining another baseball team under the watchful eye of Chef Sobel. Regardless, they shoved water bottles back into bags, grabbed mitts and bats and helmets and headed off to the main building and the cafeteria. At least they would be fed.

Which, as it turns out, was less of a blessing and more of a nightmare, since Sobel had commandeered some kids from the other dorms who where serving detention into the kitchen, and the spaghetti bolognese he had ordered them to concoct looked more like tapeworms in ketchup, and definitely had way too much salt in it.

“My grandmother makes better spaghetti and she’s dead,” Perconte griped, slamming his tray down on a table with Luz and Webster (who was still reading his book, and picking at a bread roll due to the tapeworm/spaghetti concoction not being vegetarian).

“Eh, it’s not so bad,” Luz said, twirling the tapeworms with his fork and frowning at his plate.

“Hey Webster, whatcha reading?” Cobb sneered, sliding into the seat across from Webster. Immediately, Luz was shaking his head manically and drawing his finger across his throat;  _ixnay, ixnay, I did not pay you to fuck up the plan!_

Thankfully, Webster was paying no mind to Cobb, he merely lifted his book up and showed him the front cover, and Cobb had time to catch Luz’s frantic signalling and shoot him a raised eyebrow and muddled expression.

“ _Catcher In The Rye_ , huh? Any good?” He was being condescending, which was not far off of his usual demeanour, and Luz was reminded why he was so totally okay with him getting punched in the face later.

“Yeah.” Webster said, voice faraway and barely registering in the loud cafeteria. The boys from Parris School had split up and joined tables with other boys from Toccoa; Liebgott had apparently patched up his relationship with Hoosier and was sitting with him and Leckie at another table. Luz laughed when he saw the striking similarities between the two of them - he kicked Perconte under the table and nodded in the way of their table.

“That Hoosier kid looks like someone we know,”

Perconte whipped around, tapeworm ketchup flying off of his fork and hitting Cobb in the face. “What the fuck,” He twisted back around, wide-eyed, “He looks like the lovechild of Liebgott and Webster here .” He jabbed is fork in the direction of Webster, who looked past him at the table where Liebgott was sat.

“My thoughts exactly,” Luz sent a sly look towards Webster, “When were you gonna tell us that you and Lieb had a kid?” He joked, chuckling. Webster looked at him blankly, face showing no emotion.

“That is physically impossible. He’s the same age as us.” And then he went back to his book like nothing had happened.

Luz made an O with his mouth, raising his eyebrows at Perconte, and then was momentarily distracted by Bill stalking away from a table muttering about ‘fuckin’ Cajuns and their ginger boyfriends’, leaving a confused and blushing table of Roe, Babe and two boys from Parris in his wake.

“What a dramatic day we’re all having.” Luz said, returning to his food.

* * *

The time had come.

Luz was in the middle of setting up The Plan, and so far everything was going swimmingly. The boys from Parris had boarded their bus, sent off with waves and promises of going easy on them at the next baseball game, and most of the dorm had retreated back to their rooms.

The Plan required a hefty amount of luck as well as organisation, and thankfully luck was on his side that evening. He’d managed to push Cobb into the elevator with him, leaving Webster, Liebgott and Skinny to wait until it came back down to collect them.

“Okay, when I give you the signal, you just start talking shit about Webster,” Luz said, the elevator doors opening on the second floor. Cobb made a considering noise and stepped out, lingering halfway down the hall.

“You paid me thirty bucks to say out loud what I think about Webster every day of my life?”

“Correct,” Luz sighed, already missing the three ten dollar bills he had handed over. Though he had conveniently omitted the important detail wherein Liebgott was likely to punch Cobb in the face for insulting Webster.

He waited for the elevator doors to close again, leaving them alone in the hall, and then continued to wait until he heard the  _ding_  that signalled it’s return, bringing with it Webster, Liebgott and Skinny.

Luz nodded, indicating that Cobb should begin. He started off quite calmly, flatly explaining how he found Webster boring due to his predilection for books, but escalated his tirade quickly, moving on to Webster’s rich parents and his general ‘Harvard-ness’, gradually getting louder and more animated.

By the time that the elevator once again closed it’s doors, Liebgott was in the hallway, pushing his way past a blinking Webster and a wide-eyed Skinny, with his hands clenched at his sides, a look of murderous intent shining in his dark eyes.

Cobb had barely noticed Liebgott’s advance, too immersed in what he was saying, and Liebgott never said a word as he brought his arm back and landed a punch to the right side of Cobb’s face, a sickening  _crack_ resounding through the hall as Cobb crumpled to the ground. Luz’s mouth dropped open, just as Liebgott wrapped his hands around Cobb’s shirt, wrenching him off of the ground and slamming him up against the door of 206.

“What the fuck did you say?” He spat, lips pulling back over his teeth in a growl. Cobb gaped like a fish for a few seconds, just long enough to make Liebgott really mad because he pulled him away from the wooden door and re-slammed him against it, forcing his head to snap forwards and then backwards again with enough force that Cobb’s knees buckled and gave way. Liebgott managed to keep him pinned up against the wood.

The fight in the hallway had begun to attract attention: Harry had come out of his room to investigate, and almost immediately began banging on Winters and Nixon’s door. Bill, Toye and Babe had come out of 203, and stood silent, gaping at the scene before them.

It was only when Shifty opened his door - the one that Cobb was being held hostage against - that Liebgott let go, allowing Cobb to fall through the air, landing at Shifty’s feet.

Mildly alarmed, Shifty stepped over him and out into the hall.

Liebgott stooped, one hand pushing on Cobb’s chest to keep him down, “What the  _fuck_  did you say?” He repeated, sounding positively unhinged.

Luz briefly worried that the thirty bucks he’d bought Cobb with were  _not_  going to cut it.

“I didn’t-“ Cobb started, but he never got to finish whatever he was going to say, because Liebgott cut him off -

“Thats my fucking  _boyfriend_ you were talking shit about, fuckwad,” He let go, pushing against Cobb’s chest with all his weight to get back on his feet, then kicked him in the side.

When he finally decided he was finished, Liebgott turned to find the whole of the second floor in the hallway, staring at him. He wiped an arm across his face, heart pounding in his chest, eyes flicking over Webster hiding at the back of the group. He looked like he was either going to be sick or maybe even jump him right there in the hallway.

“Liebgott,” Winters barked, clearly annoyed that this was the second fight he’d started in one day, and he started for him, but Nixon took a hold of his arm before he’d managed more than two steps.

“Leave it. He took a leaf out of that Hoosier kids book. He was just defending his boyfriend’s honour, let him have his moment.” Nixon smirked, pulling Winters back into their dorm room.

Finally, Webster spoke up, “I’m not your boyfriend any more.”

Luz deflated like a popped balloon. Of  _course_  it would be Webster to reject the plan. And it had been going so well up until that point.

Liebgott looked slightly disappointed himself. His shoulders dropped and his head tipped back in defeat. He was very busy looking at the plaster ceiling when he felt the unmistakable pressure of Webster’s hands on his middle, guiding his back against a wall, then a hand slip around the back of his neck.

“I think we could give it another go, though,”

Webster’s lips found his, surprising Liebgott, who jumped and tried to pull away, but Webster was persistent, pushing against him with the full force of his body, forcing Liebgott to relax into the kiss.

When he finally pulled back enough to breathe, Liebgott smirked, “Please tell me you wrote shitty poetry about our breakup,”

Webster looked scandalised, “I thought it was pretty good poetry.”

Liebgott laughed, “I missed you,” And he dragged Webster back into another kiss, trying to show him just how much he had missed him, missed fighting him, missed fucking him.

Luz whooped, clapping at the display, “And that,” He said, turning to where Malarkey, Muck and Penkala were staring open-mouthed, “Was the plan.”

“Sin! It’s the Lord’s day! Sin, sin, sin!” Muck screeched jovially, pointing an accusatory finger at Liebgott and Webster, laughing the whole time.

“I don’t think thirty bucks is going to cover what I just went through,” Cobb grumbled, having removed himself from the floor, clutching his side in pain and retreating back to his own dorm.

While the others were enjoying the show, they had missed the elevator dinging again, delivering a wind-swept Talbert, who had missed the entire show.

“Hey guys-“ He said, approaching the crowd, but when he caught sight of Webster and Liebgott pressed up against the wall next to his dorm, going for as much as they could in public, the shock made him stumble over his own feet, sending both himself and his open backpack to the floor, spilling the contents all over the hall. He yelped as his face connected with the carpet, and then realising that his belongings were now spread out for everyone to see, he stayed there, nose getting carpet burn.

“Siiiiiiiiin!” Muck yelled again, pointing dramatically at the contents of Talbert’s up-ended bag.

Amongst the pens and notebooks, the water bottle and the iPod, there were easily one hundred or more brightly coloured condom wrappers littering the floor.

“Holy shit,” Luz breathed, catching sight of Shifty turning the brightest red he had ever seen. He guessed that he was probably red from the tip of his toes to the top of his head.

The commotion had distracted Liebgott from sucking his boyfriends’ face, and he looked at Talbert on the floor, breaking into a grin.

 “Nice one Tab,” he said, entwining his fingers with Webster’s and tugging him down the hallway, stopping only to bend down and grab a few of the condoms off the floor, “Thanks, buddy.”

Then the pair of them disappeared into 208, slamming the door in their wake.

Shifty had calmed down enough to have taken a tentative step forward, clearing his throat as he said, “I don’t know who you were planning on having sex with, but it sure as hell wasn’t me,” and he too disappeared into his own dorm, leaving Talbert to groan into the carpet.

“ _Sin_ ,” Muck whispered, enjoying himself a little too much with all the drama going on. Penkala giggled, and Malarkey rolled his eyes, also stooping to pick up a couple of condoms.

“Come on, we’ve got our own sinning to do,” He said, gently nudging Muck towards their door, handing the condoms over to Penkala on the way.

“Ooh, strawberry flavour,”

“Shit, they’re flavoured?”

“Hell yeah,”

The door of 207 swung shut, leaving Luz, Bill, Toye, Babe and Skinny to kneel down and help Talbert up off the floor and shove his belongings back into his bag.

“I’m sure your intentions were pure,” Luz sympathised, patting Talbert on the shoulder, knowing that his intentions were absolutely anything but pure. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see what my pal Perco is up to.” He said, standing up and pretending to brush dust off of his knees.

He’d rather not hang out in his own dorm and be surrounded on all sides by sinning teenagers.

* * *

If any of them had considered the effects of stress on nightmares and sleepwalking, they all might have locked their doors that night. They all might have expected the events that unfolded in the early hours of Monday morning.

Luz was awoken, somewhere close to two in the morning, by shuffling outside of Perconte’s dorm room. The darkness of the room (which by the way, was the living area, and Luz was insurmountably pissed that Perconte had him sleep on the couch when he had let him sleep in his bed just last week) made him think that he was just experiencing a nightmare, a very dark, warm nightmare.

It wasn’t until someone screamed - an honest, painful, blood curdling scream - that he bolted upright on the couch, throwing the blanket back with enough force to send it floating into the kitchen, and he ran for the door, wrenching in open.

He very nearly collided with both Lipton and Grant when he stepped out of the room, both of them rushing to the other end of the hall nearer the fire exit, their roommates - Popeye and Christenson, respectively - shuffling into the doorways of their dorms, bleary eyed and yawning, asking where the fire was.

The fire was, apparently, not a fire, and it was in the space between rooms 303 and 304, where two of their dorm-mates were lying on the floor, surrounded by panicking, yelling teenagers.

Luz stared at the bodies on the floor, recognising Hoobler’s unmistakeable, large ears and Talbert’s fluffy dark hair. Both were lying on their backs, hands clenched around wounds that Luz couldn’t make out because people kept getting in the way.

Speirs was already there, bearing down on Talbert’s chest with both of his hands, apparently trying desperately to stem the flow of blood. He looked panicked, trying to bark orders as his head whipped around, alternating between talking to Roe, dealing with Hoobler, and looking to Lipton with pleading, panicked eyes.

“Call a fucking ambulance!” Roe yelled, his hands around Hoobler’s thigh, his accent thinning out as he over-pronounced each consonant.

Someone was already on the phone, giving the emergency worker the address of the school, and the run-down of the situation, which George had yet to grasp.

Everything was happening so quickly, and all Luz could do was stand there and watch it happen in front of him; Lipton kneeling down and asking what he could do, Speirs gazing at him, lost and terrified, Roe’s keen focus on keeping Hoobler from bleeding out, and finally saying, “Get Winters. Get an  _adult_.”

Lipton turned to call the elevator, but Bull had kicked open the fire exit and suddenly everything was flashing red lights at measured intervals along the hall and roaring sirens, and Luz was still stood in the same spot as when his nightmare began, right up until Perconte was pushing him down the hall, past his friends lying on the floor, moaning in pain and picking their heads up to look at their wounds, only to drop them back to the floor with whimpers.

“I don’t want to die,” He heard someone say, just as the cold night air hit him at the top of the wrought iron fire escape.

“You’re not going to die.” Speirs said firmly.

And then Winters was rushing past him, a blur of orange hair and white t-shirt, followed closely by Nixon because when did Winters ever go anywhere that his boyfriend didn’t follow?

“What happened?” He asked, but Luz didn’t get to stick around to hear the answer, because Martin was pushing him out of the door and down the fire escape, telling him to clear the way for the emergency services when they arrived.

And arrive they did, not three minutes after they had reached the courtyard,finding the rest of the dorm in various states of undress, huddled together in the cold, looking up at the red-brick dorm with trepidation. They were all alarmed at the arrival of not one, but two ambulances, flashing red lights illuminating the courtyard parking lot, sirens blaring.

Luz slumped into the dewey grass at the side of the lot, joined shortly by Muck and Malarkey.

“George,” Malarkey started, “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” His voice was smaller than he was used to, and he couldn’t work out if it was because of all the chaos and noise or if… if seeing his friends hurt like that and not being able to do anything had fucked him up in the head just that little bit more than usual.

There was a cry from somewhere off to his left, hysterical and shrill, and when Luz looked over, Shifty was covering his mouth with both hands, about to clamber into the back of an ambulance with who he assumed was Talbert.

Hoobler was being loaded into the other ambulance, Buck following the paramedics in and Roe slamming the door behind them, smacking one bloody hand against the back door to send them off.

“Someone get that alarm turned off!” Winters yelled, rubbing his hands across his face in defeat, “And the rest of you get back to bed. I have to inform Sink.”

Everyone was shaking and shivering, but followed Winters’ orders, clambering back into the building, not even noticing when the fire alarm stopped ringing. The elevator took them up in groups of five.

Luz got in with Malarkey, Muck, Penkala and Skinny, and when they finally got back to their dorm, he collapsed into bed, forgoing blankets, and slipped right into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Lipton thought he might be sick, watching the paramedics load Hoobler and Talbert onto stretchers and carry them out of the building. And being sick wasn’t his only worry, because when the hallway cleared, it was just him and Speirs, and Speirs was not in good shape.

He was sat with his back up against the wall, staring at his hands - hands that were shaking and slick with Talbert’s blood. A shiver of terror ran up Lipton’s spine.

“Ron,” He started slowly, padding across the hall and kneeling in front of him. He looked up slightly, tearing his eyes away from his blood-soaked hands to stare into Lipton’s eyes. His mouth was slightly parted, and he tried to say something, but nothing happened. “Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?”

Lipton hooked a hand under Speirs’ arm, gently pulling him to his feet and guiding him back to his dorm room. He had been in Speirs’ dorm quite a few times now, but he was always struck by how many books were piled up in the living area. Next to the couch, there was even a straight pile of books being used as an end table. It was absolutely full to bursting with dusty tomes, some of them not even in English. He’d tried to count how many different languages there were, but he’d given up at five when a precariously balanced pile of books threatened to topple over on his head.

He left Speirs standing outside the bathroom door, still staring at his hands where the red blood was drying up his wrists in a deep mahogany colour, as he ran a cloth under the faucet. Lipton was worried; he’d never seen Speirs in such a state, although he understood that he was most likely in shock.

“Here,” Lipton said, coming back and gently taking hold of one of Speirs’ hands. Speirs jumped slightly, trying to tug his hand back, but Lipton held firm, running the damp cloth over his palm. Eventually Speirs relaxed, his fingers curling between Lipton’s thumb and index finger. Lipton looked down at their almost-entwined hands and smiled.

“Better?” He asked, throwing the cloth into the bathroom sink. Speirs nodded.

“Thank you,” It was the first thing he had said, and it was crystal clear. Lipton had expected his voice to crack as he recovered from the shock, but he should have known that wasn’t Speirs’ style.

“Do you want something to drink?”

Speirs nodded, moving of his own free will to the couch, leaving Lipton to find his way to the kitchenette and get them both something to drink.

Opening one of the cabinets, he was nearly buried in packages of teabags; a pile of them toppled and over and fell through the open door, lightly tapping Lipton on the head as they tumbled down. He sighed, stooping to pick them up.

When he had finished cleaning up and making drinks, he settled himself on the couch next to Speirs, their knees inches from touching. Though he knew Speirs wasn’t the biggest fan of physical contact, he figured that this might be an exceptional circumstance.

He found that it was, because Speirs looked to him and the corners of his mouth lifted, only slightly, but it was a smile, and Lipton would take what he could get. Then Speirs looked away, reaching for the television remote on the coffee table, “Stay for a while?” He asked, pressing the little red ‘on’ button and suddenly the room was bathed in light, hitting all of the sharp edges of Speirs’ face, casting shadows.

“Sure.” Lipton settled himself back on the couch, curled around the porcelain mug in his hand, not watching the television, but instead watching Speirs.

He didn’t realise how tired he was until he had already slipped into a deep sleep.


	8. The One With The Catfish Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a motorbike, a catfish and a day off of classes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up splitting this chapter in two because I feared that it would be too long. Now it's just short but I needed it get it out there or I might have imploded.
> 
> As always, thanks to Emma for beta-ing (even if she does get distracted during every Speirs/Lip scene)!
> 
> Enjoy!

Lipton was almost convinced that it wasn’t even morning when he woke up. The room was artificially lit, strip lighting in the kitchenette on full, and a singular bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling in the living area, casting light over him, all giving the illusion of daylight; but he wasn’t convinced.

A quick peek at the clock hanging  above the door told him that his doubts were unfounded. Just past ten in the morning.

And then he realised: his dorm room didn’t have a clock above the door. Hoobler had smashed it when he occupied 301 last year, and no-one had bothered replacing it.

So, he was still in Speirs’ dorm, on his couch, warm under a borrowed blanket that he didn’t remember acquiring. He pushed it down from his shoulders and tried to get a firmer grip on the situation, uncurling his legs from the cramped position he’d seemingly held in his sleep where his knees almost touched his chin.

“Hey,” Speirs greeted him, from his position sitting on the other end of the couch. An open book rested on one knee and a mug of something was balanced on the other, deft fingers holding the pages open somewhere halfway through the book.

Lipton swallowed, his tongue a scrap of sandpaper scraping the roof of his mouth. “Hey.” His voice came out barely above a whisper, and he inwardly cursed his tendency to have a dry mouth and uncooperative vocal chords in the mornings.

“There’s some water there for you,” Speirs said, his attention briefly flitting back to the book so he could turn a page and slide a scrap of paper in as a bookmark, then returned his attention expectantly to Lipton.

Lipton reached for the glass of water on the coffee table, taking half of the blanket with him in a mess around his arm. He shook it off, nearly sloshing water all over himself, and felt his cheeks heating up at the show he was making of himself.

Safely nestled back on the couch with his water, he looked over at Speirs again, his head dipped low to hide what he was sure were rosy-red cheeks. God, he had no idea why Speirs made him like this. It wasn’t like they didn’t hang out; in fact he might even go as far as saying they were  _friends_  now. He sure knew his way around the piles of books Speirs had hoarded in his dorm, and which teas were his favourite, and he was pretty sure he knew which drawer Speirs kept his underwear in.

Not that he’d been anywhere near Speirs’ underwear. But he was definitely a bottom-drawer kind of guy.

Flustered all over again at this errant train of thought, Lipton cleared his throat and finally, finally, clocked that Speirs was dressed in his bike leathers, a matte black helmet sitting on the ground at his feet.

His eyebrows creased together, “Going somewhere?”

Speirs had apparently been lost in a daydream because Lipton had to repeat the question twice before he kind of snapped his head a fraction and his eyes focussed back on him, slightly wider than usual and a little confused.

“Uh,” He looked down at his feet where the helmet was resting, “Yeah. Dick asked if I’d run some stuff up to the hospital for Hoob, Tab and Shifty.” He pointed to a backpack just behind the end of the coffee table that Lipton couldn’t quite see. “He’s insisting that he won’t leave until his  _boyfriend"_  (his tongue ran over the word like it was foreign, like he was testing out a new language) “does, so he needs his toothbrush or whatever. I just chucked a bunch of their stuff in there. Jesus, I couldn’t tell which stuff belonged to either of them in that room. It’s all mixed together and confusing.” He threw his hands up to his face and gave a breathy laugh that contained only the barest hint of actual amusement.

Lipton ran his teeth over his bottom lip. Speirs was flushed and doing the fast-talking thing that he sometimes did when he got carried away or nervous. Seeing Speirs nervous was like watching a fish walk on land. Awkward, and, at least to him, weirdly endearing.

“I’ll - I’ll get out of your hair then,” Lipton settled, throwing the blanket over the back of the couch and making his way to stand up.

“Actually,” Speirs stopped him, head tilted up so the light picked up the gold flecks in his green eyes, “I was wondering if you wanted to come too.” And there we was, giving Lipton that easy smile that he could swear, downright swear to god, was only ever directed at him. And  _fuck_  if he wasn’t defenceless against that smile.

“Yeah. Sure.” He said, momentarily wondering if they’d actually been given the day off of classes or if he was committing some minor truancy and was looking at two rounds of running Currahee and a month in the kitchens with Sobel.

Speirs’ smile grew a little wider and he put his book and mug on the table, then picked up his helmet and backpack in one swift move as he stood up.

“We can stop at your room on the way so you can get changed.”

Lipton was feeling a little bit lost as he followed the older boy out of the dorm and down the quiet hall, silently noting the blood stains in the carpet that they both walked around and tactfully decided not to mention.

The third floor would need a new carpet over winter break; no doubt Winters was already on the job.

He left Speirs sitting on the couch as he got changed, and heard the commotion as Popeye opened his own bedroom door (presumably to see where Lipton had been all night), squeaked a little bit at the sight of Speirs casually occupying their living area, and promptly slammed the door again.

“Any idea why he’s so scared of me? I haven’t even done anything to him yet.” Speirs’ voice was closer than he’d expected, and Lipton jumped slightly. He was only half dressed, still trying to liberate a shirt from one of the drawers, but as he turned around, there was Speirs, leaning gracefully up against the door frame of his room, modestly averting his gaze from Lipton’s half-dressed state.

Lipton couldn’t say anything but “Yet?” in response, as he was both startled by the silent appearance and also mildly embarrassed at his state of undress. And although it was nice that Speirs had the decency to look away, Lipton had a niggling thought in the back of his head that said  _‘look at me, Ron’_ and it wouldn’t go  _away_.

All Speirs did was smirk slightly in response and flick his eyes to Lipton for half a second.

“Everyone’s scared of you.” Lipton shook his head and yanked the stuck t-shirt from the open drawer, dragging it over his head and kicking the drawer shut with his foot.

“Except you.” Speirs said nonchalantly. He didn’t even sound bitter about it, like any sane person would. He sounded like he was reading a grocery list or a passage from a text book - it was just another fact. It didn’t need to have any emotion attached to it.

And  _God_  if that didn’t make Lipton instantly regret what he had said.

“It’s not - it’s not that they’re…” He trailed off. What the hell could he say to to fix it?

“It’s fine, I get it. I scare people. I know they all call me Spooky Speirs behind my back anyway.” Speirs waved it off, but it left Lipton feeling frustrated. He was going to institute a ban on anyone calling him Spooky Speirs, and the ban, effective immediately, was going to last  _forever._

“You’re not the monster under the bed, you know. You’re not.”

Speirs said something under his breath that Lipton didn’t quite catch, but sounded like “More like monster in the  _closet_.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever known you to do anything inherently bad in all the time I’ve been here. It’s all rumours,” Lipton continued, “and you could probably avoid it entirely if you told them it was all lies.” Oh God he was using his mom voice.  _On a guy he kind-of-maybe liked_. He was becoming Winters.

“I know. It’s more fun this way, though.” And Speirs pushed off of the doorframe with his shoulders and collected the backpack and helmet again, waiting patiently by the door.

Lipton couldn’t help but notice that this last statement held no conviction. He shook his head again, grabbed the jacket from the back of his desk chair and walked straight past Speirs waiting for him, into the bathroom to brush his teeth. A minor passive-aggressive move that he almost instantly regretted because Speirs looked down-right sulky afterwards.

Another thing Lipton regretted was letting Luz spray colours into his hair for halloween because  _‘it comes out in three to four washes’_  apparently meant  _‘it’s going to be there until christmas’_  in Luz-speak, since the blue still stained the left side, and there was a rogue patch of hot pink lurking behind his ear on the other.

“I’m sorry.” Lipton finally said, throwing his toothbrush back into the holder next to Popeyes and flicking the bathroom light off on his way out.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. It’s your life and if you’re okay with everyone else thinking you basically killed a guy, go right ahead. But I’m not okay with it.” He shrugged, gently nudging past Speirs stood in the way of the door, “Shall we go, then?”

Lipton made it into the elevator before he realised Speirs was still stood in the doorway, staring after him.

“They don’t think I  _basically_  killed a guy. They think I  _actually_  killed him.”

Lipton raised an eyebrow and pressed the button to keep the elevator doors open.

“So what happened?” This wasn’t exactly a conversation to be had while the elevator kept trying to close its doors.

“I hit him a few times. I was an angry kid.” Speirs shrugged, taking a few steps to the elevator, just to test the waters. If Lipton flinched, he would move back. But he didn’t. “He had a couple of stitches and then transferred out of Toccoa.”

There was definitely a note of shame in his voice.

Lipton inclined his head slightly, telling Speirs to get into the elevator.

“Alright. But if we don’t leave now visiting hours will be over by the time we get to the hospital.” He said, effectively ending the conversation.

Lipton didn’t flinch when Speirs stepped into the elevator with him, even after hearing how he did actually beat some kid up bad enough to require stitches. In fact, he barely even seemed to acknowledge it.

They rode down to the lobby in silence, where they found Babe bouncing around on a couch, still in his pyjamas, Roe set up next to him wearing a blanket as a cape, and both watching some disney movie with talking teapots that neither Lipton or Speirs had ever seen.

“But Gene really there’s a great theory that Belle is, like, Jane from  _Tarzan_ ’s grandmother or something and Mrs. Potts and Chip are the dinner set Jane has in the jungle. It’s so cool!”

“I ain’t seen  _Tarzan_  either,”

Babe groaned and slumped back into the couch, his head knocking against Roe’s shoulder, “Are there any disney movies you  _have_  - oh hey Lip, where ya going?” He straightened up almost instantly upon seeing Speirs, but didn’t address him directly.

“Hey boys,” Lipton greeted, “Just the hospital to see Tab and Hoob.”

Babe nodded solemnly. Roe said nothing, only looked at them with mild interest and smiled with the corner of his mouth.

“Say ‘hi’ to them for me, yeah?”

“Will do.”

With that, Lipton made for the door, Speirs following close behind. He wasn’t used to be followed like that, and it unnerved him, made him feel like he was walking a dog or something.

Just as the door was closing behind them, he heard Babe ask Roe, “So is this like… a date?” but he didn’t get to hear Roe’s answer because the door clicked and the November wind swept his hearing away like so many dead leaves in the courtyard.

Speirs took over again, apparently having gotten over the moment he had upstairs, leading Lipton off to the far-side of the parking strip where his motorbike had been left. He swept one leg over the black monstrosity, straddling the seat like he was meant to be on a bike. He checked a few things, then held his hands out for the helmet.

Lipton almost gulped as he handed it over - was he supposed to get on too? _Where?_  It wasn’t exactly the biggest bike in the world. And if he was, he’d expected Speirs to produce a second helmet from somewhere.

“Come here,” Speirs motioned for Lipton to move closer, and when he did, he slipped the helmet over Lipton’s head, his fingers brushing against his jaw in the process.

Lipton pushed the visor up when Speirs’ hands were safely resting against the bike seat again.

“Where’s your helmet?”

“You’re wearing it.” Was the reply.

Speirs’ expression was halfway between a smirk and a genuine smile, as he gave an explanation. “I’ve only got one, and if we crash your safety is more important than mine, so you get the helmet. Just don’t tell my Nana I rode without one, she’d kill me.”

Lipton blinked, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. He was definitely with Nana Speirs on this one - he most definitely did not like the idea of Speirs operating a speedy death-machine without a helmet.

Regardless, Speirs handed the backpack over, “Put that on, I can’t have you sat behind me if I’m wearing it,” Lipton realised that Speirs fully intended to walk him all the way through this. Everything would be discussed before it happened.

So Lipton hauled the bag onto his back, and waited for his next instruction. Speirs shuffled forward in the seat slightly, leaving more space for Lipton to slide in behind him.

“Put your hand here,” He reached for Lipton’s hand and placed it on his shoulder, “Now just swing your leg over. It’s like getting on a horse.”

Lipton followed, trying his best to leave a sliver of space between their bodies. Where were the boundaries here? Was there some invisible line Lipton wasn’t supposed to cross? He was getting flustered just being that close, his hand still resting on Speirs’ shoulder, covered by Speirs’ hand.

“Ride horses a lot?” He joked. His mouth was dry again.

“No, I’m a city kid,” Speirs laughed, turning his head to look at Lipton from the corner of his eye, “Now, do you trust me?”

He asked cautiously, as if he didn’t expect Lipton to answer in the affirmative; not after he’d revealed that he’d been responsible for a kid transferring out of school, for hitting him hard enough to require stitches.

Half a heartbeat passed before Lipton’s confident answer, “Of course,”

Speirs nearly shivered. Lipton’s breath was hot on the back of his neck, even with the helmet cutting half of it short.

But he brushed this feeling away and, with more confidence than he felt, reached back and pulled Lipton’s thighs a little tighter to his, excluding any space there might have been between them, and then manoeuvred Lipton’s arms around him, securing them against his abdomen, where his fingers curled into the worn leather of his jacket.

“Put your feet there,” Speirs’ voice wavered slightly as he pointed to a piece of rubber-covered metal sticking out of the bike, “Everything okay?”

Lipton nodded against Speirs’ back, his feet firmly planted on the bike, pushing down with unnecessary force.

“Hold on tight,” Speirs revved the engine, “And you can close your eyes if you want. I can go pretty fast,” There was the barest hint of a smirk behind his words, but Lipton had already closed his eyes and buried his helmeted head in Speirs’ back, his arms tightening when he felt the engine rumble dangerously before wind started rushing around them, blocking out all noise that wasn’t a vague howl in his ears.

* * *

“Are you seeing this? This is so gay.” Muck turned away from the window in their bedroom where he had been sneakily watching Speirs and Lipton in the courtyard.

“Skip we’re not seeing it because we are here and you are there,” Penkala called back and after a brief pause added, “Please describe the gay though.”

The three of them - Muck, Malarkey and Penkala - had retired to their dorm after Winters had called a morning meeting to ‘discuss’ the previous evening’s events. Winters had looked terrible, dark rings under his eyes and hair that wasn’t messy from sleeping - more like he’d been pulling on it all night in frustration. No-one else looked any better, though. Nixon looked like he was at the end of a week-long bender, probably having been kept up all night with Winters’ worrying.

The meeting had devolved into an all-out argument over who was going to call Hoobler’s ‘girlfriend’ to tell her what had happened: Tipper had insisted that as Hoobler’s roomie, he should be the one to do it, except he was convinced that this girlfriend was a fake and he’d end up having his call answered by a forty year old dude who still lived in his mother’s basement.

Which of course, lead to a very animated group discussion and viewings of the pictures that ‘Carrie the Catfish’ (as she had universally been dubbed) had sent to Hoobler’s phone. Immediately, Muck had latched on and run with it, declaring that he’d always wanted to be Nev Schulman and announcing he was going to go fishing.

This ended with a pyjama-run in Nixon’s car to Starbucks for six espresso shots, a pack of Red Bull and enough red vines to last the three of them for a week. And kicking Luz out of their dorm so they could ‘work’.

Now, they had three laptops set up on the coffee table, Hoobler’s phone and a notepad. And Muck had already taken a pre-investigation break to spy on Speirs and Lipton.

“Speirs was helping him onto his bike. Lots of touching. I think I saw Speirs blush.”

Malarkey and Penkala cooed, already pulling up the reverse image search function for the images of ‘Carrie’ they had.

“I hope that works out for them. Bit weird. Spooky Speirs and Lip, I mean. But I think it will be good for them.” Malarkey noted, fiddling with Hoobler’s phone. “Also, I would like to thank Hoob for being terrible at remembering passwords and never putting a passcode on his phone.”

“Hey, remember the time he forgot the password to get into the school computers? He can remember complex lines of code for comp sci but he can’t remember his own password.” Penkala snorted. “Skip come on, this catfish thing was your idea. You helping us or what?”

“Yeah I just need my camcorder,” Muck replied, dragging a bunch of tangled wires out of a box to find his camcorder.

When his hands hit the smooth plastic he made a satisfied noise and flicked it on, recording his way back to the living area.

“Season four of Catfish is  _in production_!”

“Skip, no,”

“Skip, yes!” With this, he flopped down at his own laptop, arranged the camcorder on an improvised stand (a textbook and three packets of red vines) and cracked his knuckles. “Let’s do this. What's her name?”

His fingers were poised over the keyboard, cursor ticking over on the Facebook search engine.

“Carrie Whitehall.” Malarkey said, picking out a red vine, biting out a significant chunk of it, then holding it out for Penkala.

Muck had searched facebook for the mysterious Carrie Whitehall and came up with exactly one profile.

“I got one hit.  _One_.” He griped. It was the same profile that had Hoobler listed as her boyfriend. “She’s got thirty-six friends, one of them is Hoob, and the others seem to be from all over the country.” They all frowned. It sounded suspicious. What sixteen year old only had thirty-odd friends on facebook? Most of Easy Block had close to three hundred, because they were teenagers and adding literally everyone you’ve ever met seems like the greatest idea in the whole damn world. It made you look popular.

Malarkey leaned sideways on one arm, peering around at the screen.

“She doesn’t post much, and she only has three pictures of herself,” He commented. That didn’t seem right. People shared  _everything_  on Facebook; pictures of their breakfast, lunch and dinner, inane comments on life and current events, tagged every single place they visited and every picture they took. This girl did none of that.

It was just a dummy account.

Penkala crunched a can of Red Bull in one of his hands, “Okay, give me the phone number I’m gonna see what I can get from it.”

Malarkey rolled the number off, Penkala typing it into the search engine and hitting the enter key.

“It’s listed. Belongs to a female, someone called Jo-Anne. Doesn’t list a city, though.”

They all sighed. This search was going no-where.

“Well that’s not Carrie,” Muck mused.

“No, but is  _your_  cell listed under your name? It could be her mom.” Malarkey moved back to his own laptop and plugged Hoobler’s phone in with the USB cord. “I’ll try the reverse image search.”

“Oh my god  _please_  do the very inappropriate picture first,” Muck begged, his eyes lighting up. Carrie had sent Hoobler a picture, supposedly of her, in her underwear. The head was cropped out, so none of them could be sure it was actually her, but it had still given them all a few giggles downstairs.

“ _Sin_ ,” Muck whispered, watching Malarkey drag the picture to the search engine.

What followed was a list of websites where the image had appeared: among them some very questionable amateur porn sites.

“Christ, it’s listed on a revenge porn site,” Penkala’s mouth dropped open like a trap door, “Try a different one, I don’t want to see revenge porn.”

Malarkey complied, dragging a picture of a black-haired girl that Carrie claimed was her into the search box in place of the underwear picture. That image came up with both a Facebook and Twitter profile page, but nothing else. Much more promising, except -

“Who the fuck is Andi Haynes?”

“Apparently she’s Carrie.” Malarkey clicked on her Facebook. Two hundred friends, interests listed, seven hundred pictures with other people, inane day-to-day posts. It looked like the legitimate profile of a sixteen-year-old girl.

“No wait, look at that,” Penkala pointed to the screen, about a third of the way down, “Someone called Carrie posted on her wall two days ago.”

_This_  Carrie had over one hundred friends, pictures and tags and posts. But she wasn’t the girl in the pictures.

Then something caught all of their attentions; both Andi and this Carrie had listed their place of education as _Toccoa Girls School_ \- just across the road. They were both even friends with Kitty Grogan, Harry’s girlfriend, who was a senior there.

“Okay, I think that this Carrie is the Carrie that is Hoob’s Carrie, and she’s using Andi’s pictures because Andi is, objectively, very hot and… yeah I got nothing after that.” Muck threw his hands up in defeat. He was very good at whodunits; he called the killer in every slasher film he’d ever seen. Watching police procedurals with him was useless because he’d say  _‘it’s the husband’_  five minutes in and be right. Every. Single. Time.

“Objectively?”

“You guys are hot, too. Objectively. And subjectively. I find you hot.”

“Thank you,” Malarkey and Penkala said in unison, Muck’s grin turning from sixty to one hundred-watt almost in a second flat.

“Anyway, what are we going to do with this information?” Penkala asked, sitting back against the couch behind him. Muck stood up and crawled onto the couch, flopping down on his front.

“I’m going to call her,” Malarkey said, picking up Hoobler’s phone, scrolling through the contacts. Carrie’s name had a heart emoji next to it.

“If you end up talking to a forty year old dude in his mom’s basement please come get me. I want to ask how he could get to that stage in his life.” Muck buried his face in the fabric of the couch, muffling the end of his sentence.

Malarkey mock-saluted them, “Wish me luck!” and disappeared into their bedroom, clicking the door shut for some privacy.

“Good luck,” Muck mumbled into the couch, caffeine and adrenaline finally wearing off.

The two of them sat in silence for a while, the smothered sound of Malarkey on the phone as their background music, Penkala chewing through a pack of red vines as they waited.

One of the laptops kicked in with its fan, the whirring filling the quiet when Malarkey’s voice dropped off on the call.

He came back a minute later, looking glum.

“Definitely a girl,” He said, crossing to the couch and dropping down on Muck’s back. Muck groaned at the sudden weight and shifted enough to drop Malarkey down behind him, his legs hanging over Muck’s back.

“What did she say?” Penkala turned around on the floor, poking Muck’s cheek where he could see it exposed so he could be involved with the conversation.

“She confessed to having made up the profile to - get this -  _talk to Hoob_. Said she was too scared to do it as herself.”

Raising an eyebrow, Penkala asked, “What’s she going to do now?”

“She’s going to go down to the hospital. Kitty’s going to drive her.” He looked both dead serious and dead worried. “I should probably call Shifty or something and tell him to prep Hoob for this bombshell.”

“Call Lip, I’m pretty sure that Winters asked Speirs to go there with some stuff for Tab and Hoob. Lip just left with him, so that’s probably where they’re going. He’d be better at breaking the news.” Muck said, pushing himself up with his elbows and dislodging Malarkey’s legs from his back.

“That is, surprisingly, a much better idea. Well done you.”

“Sometimes I have good ideas that don’t endanger our lives.” Muck grinned, and dropped his body back into the couch as Malarkey dialled Lipton’s phone.


	9. The One With The Catfish Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speirs hates hospitals again, Kitty likes to tease and Lipton's having heart palpitations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear if I had to look at this chapter for another minute I would have thrown myself or the laptop out of the window.
> 
> And I promise everyone else will return next chapter - I have no idea how everything became about Speirs and Lipton *side-eyes Emma*.

Speirs didn’t park in a no-parking zone this time. He drove around to the main hospital parking lot and parked up legally, cutting the engine and tapping Lipton on the knee to indicate that it was safe to stop burying his head in his back.

Lipton pulled back slightly, but didn’t entirely let go of Speirs. He was pretty sure he shouldn’t be allowed to stand on his own after that ride, lest he face-plant the asphalt.

Speirs shifted around in the seat, flipping the visor of the helmet up so he could look at Lipton properly.

“Are you okay?”

“If I let go of you I might fall off,” Lipton admitted, though his grip had become lax. Speirs chuckled, easing Lipton’s hands from his body and sliding himself off of the bike, being careful not to kick Lipton in the process.

He turned around and eased the helmet from Lipton’s head, then held out a hand to help him down. Lipton took it gratefully, one foot tentatively meeting the ground, then the other as he dismounted. It took him a few minutes to get used to being on the ground again, but when he got there he smiled widely and said, “That is nothing at all like riding a horse.”

“You’re right, but I did say it was like getting  _on_  a horse, not riding one.”

They left the motorbike and helmet and walked through to the accident and emergency department. Just as they were approaching the desk, Lipton angled his body to Speirs and said, “Are  _you_  okay? I can take this stuff to them if you want to stay outside.” He rattled the backpack, not missing the fact that Speirs’ jaw had already clenched and his breathing had started coming in short bursts in a conscious effort to keep himself calm.

There was an almost imperceptible shake of his head before his response “I’m fine.”

Behind the curved front desk a receptionist looked up from her computer screen, a telephone jammed between her cheek and shoulder. She held up her index finger, indicating that she would be with them in just a moment.

The smack of a folder closing nearby was followed by “Carwood Lipton?” and Lipton’s head snapped towards the southern accent. Further down the desk and surrounded by plastic folders was a blonde women, her hair pulled back into a professional bun and she had a very bright smile.

“Uh, hi.” He said, recognising the nurse that had stitched his face back together on his last visit to the hospital.

Speirs rolled his eyes. He still didn’t like Nurse Ashley. Too blonde, too happy, too much touching involved.

“What’re y’all doing here?” She asked, dropping her file and rounding the desk to talk to them properly. “Did you see the haematology department like I suggested?”

Lipton didn’t know which question to answer first; both of them had long and complicated answers and standing there talking to a nurse who only really knew him in passing (though could apparently remember specifics of his visit) was taking up precious time that he could have been using to find his friends and then getting Speirs out of the hospital as fast as possible.

She was watching him expectantly.

“Some friends of ours were brought in last night, we’re dropping off some things for them,” He smiled politely, “And yes, I saw the haematology department.”

Nurse Ashley’s smile widened and she nodded, thankfully electing not to push the subject any further, but then her grin disappeared and she looked like she was thinking hard about something.

“Your friends… they weren’t the pair that got stabbed where they? One in the chest and one in the leg?” She crossed her arms and an index finger tapped her chin.

“That would be them. Floyd Talbert and Donald Hoobler?” Lipton asked.

“Hmm, yes I worked on them both. Double shift,” She fluttered one hand in front of her face as if to say that she worked double shifts all the time, “They’ve both been taken up to the wards, they were both in stable condition last I saw of them.” Then she gestured to the elevators just down the corridor. Speirs immediately started for them, his patience already worn down by this random woman who thought she knew them well enough to just start conversations.

Though he supposed that that’s what normal people did to make friends or whatever.

“Level three!” She called after him, as Lipton made to follow Speirs, giving her an apologetic look.

“He doesn’t like hospitals,” He offered, and was given a short giggle in return.

“I figured as much. Though I thought maybe last time his behaviour was ‘cause he was right worried about his boyfriend.” She lifted a hand to her mouth in order to half-cover the cheeky smile and laugh she gave him.

Lipton pursed his lips together and shook his head, “I’m not his boyfriend.”

“Uh-huh,” She gave him a playful nudge, “Get goin’. Stay safe, honey.” And suddenly she was gone, disappearing back into the maze of curtains that were the A&E cubicles.

When Lipton finally caught up to Speirs, the elevator was waiting for them. Speirs had his thumb jammed against the call button to stop it from going anywhere.

“She drives me up the wall.” He said, pressing the button for level three when they were both in the elevator and then shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket.

“You’ve met her  _twice_.” Lipton stressed, though he wasn’t surprised at Speirs’ attitude. Nurse Ashley could probably grate on anybody’s nerves after a while.

Speirs shrugged. It wasn’t unusual for him to decide straight off the bat who he did and did not like, and if he’d set his mind on disliking some random nurse then he was unlikely to reverse the decision.

The bright  _ding_  of the elevator opened them up to a short, square, waiting area with a line of hard plastic benches on either side. It was painted, like so much of the hospital, that bizarre mint-green colour that was supposed to be calming. It never quite reached it’s goal, because it didn’t matter what colour the walls were, you were still in a hospital, surrounded by illness and death.

They could have painted the walls black for all Speirs cared. This was still his least favourite place.

Past a pair of double doors in front of them, there was a circular nurses station, around which several private patient rooms were arranged, forming a type of panopticon where the nurses could monitor patients from a single spot.

“Well this isn’t at all creepy or intrusive.” Speirs said, voice dripping with sarcasm, pointedly looking into each patient room as they approached the desk.

Lipton said nothing. He understood that hospitals stressed Speirs out and that it was best to just leave him to his own devices in terms of dealing with this stress. Even if that came in the form of sarcastic comments and the occasional death glare.

There was a male nurse sat at the desk, who appeared to be mindlessly staring at a computer screen. He didn’t look up until Speirs cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at him, then gestured to Lipton.

“How can I help you?” He asked, boredom dragging out his words.

“We’re looking for our friends, Floyd Talbert and Donald Hoobler?” Lipton asked, leaning his forearms on the desk.

“Just a minute,” The nurse said, turning back to his computer, supposedly to look up Tab and Hoobler in the system. Although, since there were only eight patient rooms on this ward, Lipton didn’t quite understand why - he should have been able to identify all eight of his patients if he’d been doing his job right. “We have Floyd Talbert on this ward, room four,” He looked up and pointed to their left, a room that had been closed off from the panopticon by drawn curtains (also green), “We don’t have a Hoobler listed for this ward. Try Three-B.”

He turned back to his computer, effectively dismissing them.

Tab’s room was quiet, save for the gentle beeping of a heart monitor and the sounds of Shifty snoring. He had dragged a visitors chair up to the side of the bed and had fallen asleep slumped forward, head resting on the scratchy hospital blankets that covered a sleeping Tab up to his chest.

Lipton grasped his shoulder and gently shook it to wake the sleeping boy.

“Hey Shifty,” He said when Shifty had managed to open his eyes and sit up properly, arms raised behind his head to stretch out his back.

“Hey Lip,” He yawned. “What’re you doing here?” There was a crease mark on his cheek from the blankets which he rubbed at absently, attention flicking between Lipton, Tab, and Speirs, who had set up residence against the window ledge and snagged Tab’s medical chart from the end of the bed.

“Winters asked us to bring you a change of clothes and a toothbrush,” Lipton said, shrugging the backpack off and balancing it on the edge of the bed. “You might have to go through it and figure out what’s yours and what’s Tab’s. Ron had some problems working it out when he packed for you.”

Speirs made a considering noise at the mention of his name and looked up from the chart. The truth was, while he had difficulty in discerning what was Tab’s stuff and what was Shifty’s, it probably wasn’t a big deal for them which he packed. It had just kind of become ‘their stuff’. He’d seen Shifty wearing one of Tab’s shirts last week; no doubt it worked the other way too.

“Thank you,” Shifty mumbled, digging around in the open backpack and pulling out a pair of toothbrushes.

“How’s he doing?” Lipton nodded towards Tab.

“Doctor said he’s okay,” Shifty swallowed, having stopped his inspection of the bag’s contents and was instead staring at the patch of gauze on Tab’s chest that covered his wound. “They had him in surgery for a few hours, I dunno what they were doing, but they when he came out they said he was going to be fine.”

“Missed the heart, the lungs and all the major arteries. He was lucky Hoobler was still half asleep. It could have been a lot worse.” Speirs offered, clicking the medical chart back to the end of the bed.

Shifty was staring at him, lips parted, eyebrows raised, “How’d you get all that from his chart? I don’t understand a word of what it says.”

Speirs shrugged and dropped his eyes to the floor, “I used to read my dad’s chart all the time.”

Lipton was halfway to reaching out for him when his phone began to buzz in his pocket. The vibration caught him off guard and he immediately switched his direction, instead slipping the phone from his jeans.

The caller ID said ‘Malarkey’ and an illuminated picture of him and Muck taken last christmas where they were wearing matching reindeer print sweaters and pulling ridiculous faces showed up.

Lipton slid his thumb across the screen.

“Hello?”

_“You’re at the hospital, right? Please tell me you’re at the hospital.”_

“Yeah, is there a problem?”

_“Oh you know, only Hoob’s not-girlfriend is on her way there and you need to go and warn him, like, right now.”_

“What’s a not-girlfriend? Malark, slow down, you’re not making any sense.”

There was pause on the other end of the line, a brief crackle from the signal being shot inside the hospital.

_“Is Speirs with you?”_

“Yeah.” Lipton said slowly, looking towards Speirs who was watching him carefully.

_“Put him on, he knows what I’m talking about.”_  Malarkey said somewhat reluctantly.

“Right.” Lipton held the phone out for Speirs, “Malark wants to talk to you about Hoob’s not-girlfriend.”

Speirs’ eyebrows shot up, but he took the phone and fumbled with it, his theory that the government was spying on people through their phones having kept him from ever handling one with a GPS chip in it before.

“Speirs,” He said, then waited for Malarkey to explain himself. A few seconds later he squeezed his eyes shut and said, “Right.”

Lipton shared a look with Shifty, who shrugged and returned to the backpack, still attempting to discern what belonged to him and Tab.

Speirs’ shoulders were tight, getting tighter with every second that ticked by while he was on the phone, and Lipton couldn’t decide if it was because he’d already spent too long in the hospital and was looking at an even longer stay, or if it was due to whatever Malarkey was unloading on him at that moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ve got it.” He pulled the phone away from his ear, grimaced at it, and handed it back to Lipton.

_We’ve._  When did they become a ‘We’? Speirs was, whether by nature or nurture, a solitary creature, so the sudden and casual inclusion of Lipton into his little bubble left him confused and with a heart rate so rapid Lipton actually thought considered plugging himself into Tab’s heart monitor to see what it looked like on-screen. He was sure there would be lots of big numbers and fun squiggles.

Instead, Lipton dipped his head, swallowed, gave himself a second to adjust, and when he looked back up, Speirs was watching him with a slight smile so he bit his tongue and said, “What are we doing?” instead of “There’s an  _us_?”

(Because Lipton figured the middle of Tab’s hospital room was not the place or time to tease out the finer points of their relationship. Ahem, friendship.)

“We should attempt to find Hoobler before his girlfriend does, because she’s been lying to him about who she is.” There was a certain stillness to Speirs as he said this, a slight lift of one shoulder that betrayed either discomfort or disinterest.

Lipton breathed an  _oh_ , put his hand on Shifty’s shoulder and said, “You gonna be okay on your own?”

Shifty nodded, “Yeah, his parents will be here in a few hours. Say hi to Hoob for me.” He smiled and sat himself back down, accepting a farewell nod from Speirs and a pat on the back from Lipton.

* * *

“What did that nurse say? Three B?” Lipton had gotten them lost in the labyrinthine halls of the hospital. From Tab’s ward, they had turned right down an identically-green corridor, passed three doors that had ambiguous names like ‘day room’ and ‘housekeeping’, but they didn’t appear to be getting any closer to where they were supposed to be.

“This place is a postmodern rat-trap,” Speirs huffed, gesturing to the glass wall they were passing that looked across an open sandstone courtyard, “The hospital back in Boston had straight lines. It didn’t look pretty, but at least it was functional.”

Then he cursed when they came to a dead-end and set of double doors labeled ‘Ward Four A’.

“How did we get to level four?” Lipton scratched his head, “Okay, let just…” He trailed off and pointed down an intersecting hallway that at least appeared to slope downwards.

It took them a further fifteen minutes to find Ward Three B, during which time they doubled back on themselves, passed under an elevated pedestrian walkway that seemed to lead to no-where, and never once saw a set of stairs. Left questioning who on earth the madman that designed the hospital was, they trudged into Hoobler’s ward to find Kitty Grogan leaning up against the glass of a patient room, arms crossed and a sour expression on her face.

“Damn, she must have broken every speed limit between here and school to get here before us.” Speirs said, rubbing a hand over his face as Kitty’s expression transformed from annoyed to mischievous.

“Ronald Speirs!” She greeted, “I was wondering if I was ever going to see you again after that disastrous double date.”

Speirs glared at her, the muscles of his jaw tightening. Kitty looked slyly towards Lipton.

“We’re not going to talk about that.” Speirs grumbled, side-stepping her to look into what he assumed was Hoobler’s room.

“Double date?” Lipton asked casually. Or at least he tried to, but he couldn’t stop the barest hint of disappointment leaking through his pretence.

Speirs waved a dismissive hand, never looking at him and then grasped the handle for the room. Kitty took the bait.

“He nearly set the restaurant on fire,” She stage-whispered theatrically, “And I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, Ron.”

“Why?”

“ _She’s_  in there with Carrie, seeing as it was her pictures she was using.” Kitty blew on her nails and rubbed them against her sweater, the ghost of a laugh playing at her lips.

Speirs grimaced and let go of the handle, just as the door slid open and a very pretty black-haired girl stood in the doorway. Her face fell at the sight of Speirs. Lipton presumed this was related to the incident Kitty was so gleefully reminding Ron about.

“You nearly set me on fire, asshole.” She hissed, swatting his arm.

To his credit, Speirs did nothing. Didn’t say anything, made no expression, merely stared at her for a few seconds before stepping back to allow her to pass him.

“Kitty, I want the car keys.”

“Nuh-uh, you can wait until Carrie is done,” Kitty swept her messenger bag behind her back, “And you’re being quite rude. You haven’t even introduced yourself to our guests.”

“We’re in a goddamn hospital, we don’t  _have_  any guests.”

Kitty cleared her throat and looked at Lipton, “Carwood, is it? Yes, Ron’s spoken about you before,” Her smile grew as Lipton tried and failed to mask his surprise. “Anyway, I’m Kitty, though I’m sure you know that. And this  _charming_ young lady is Andi Haynes.” The look she gave Andi was poisonous.

Lipton was at a loss for words. He was quite confused. Speirs had apparently been on a date with this Andi girl, and had also apparently nearly set her on fire. And he’d talked about Lipton to Kitty. What a strange day.

“Great,” Speirs’ fake smile was, even to Lipton, pretty goddamn terrifying, “Can we leave now? I think Kitty has this under control.”

He was already busy trying to steer Lipton out of the ward when finally, Lipton’s senses returned and he stepped backwards.

“I should check on Hoob.” He said apologetically.

“Yeah. Great idea.” Speirs said, his voice strained. Really, all he wanted was to leave, was that too much to ask? He would have left on his own, but he didn’t particularly care to leave Lipton behind to get lost in the hospital alone. And it totally did not have anything to do with how worried he was that  _he_ would get lost and have a panic attack in some forgotten corridor and never be found. Nope. Nothing to do with that at all.

“You can go back to the bike, you know. If you want. I can do this alone.” Lipton said over his shoulder just as he got back to the door of Hoobler’s room.

“I’ll wait.”

Lipton shrugged and slid the door closed behind him, cutting off the events of the hospital room from those of the wider ward.

“First lovers tiff?” Kitty teased, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arching and the smile still etched into the dimples of her cheeks. Sometimes Speirs wondered how Harry ever put up with a girl like Kitty Grogan. She might have been beautiful, might have been a lot of fun, might have been the first person to volunteer to help someone out - but it all covered up the fact that she was pure evil and had a deep love of _teasing_  people.

“Oh  _shit_. Well that would explain why he tried to set me on fire. He’s not into _girls_.” Andi had her mouth open and her gaze was bouncing between Speirs and the closed door. “Man, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have been such a bitch about the whole fire thing if I knew. If it helps, I’m not into dudes.”

“How does  _that_  have anything to do with setting you on fire? Which I didn’t. I set the  _tablecloth_  on fire.”

This was beyond exhausting for Speirs. On the one hand, there was no point in denying whatever Andi thought - it was true, he didn’t like women, but he’d also never been particularly interested in men either. He’d never been interested in anyone before Lipton, and he still wasn’t sure what that was all about.

On the other hand, there were certain things he wasn’t willing to let slide; the very important distinction between setting a  _person_  and a  _tablecloth_  on fire was definitely one of them.

“You’re not into guys? Andi you could have told me.” Kitty looked scandalised, holding a hand over her heart, a little crease appearing on her forehead.

Andi waved a hand, “Everyone knows.”

“Well.” Kitty huffed, crossing her arms and looking away.

The conversation lapsed, and an uneasy silence descended on the ward. Even the conversation in the patient room - that Speirs could see happening through the gaps in the curtain - was cut off to them.

“It was our second, I think.” Speirs said, one hand pressing up against the glass. He worried at his bottom lip.

“What?” Kitty looked up from her phone. No doubt she was texting Harry all of the hospital gossip.

“Fight. Disagreement. Whatever. I think we had one this morning too.” Speirs wasn’t sure that Lipton refusing to believe that he was a bad guy and then cold-shouldering him for all of five minutes constituted a fight, but it had definitely _felt_  like a fight at the time. But he was so ready to  _forgive_  Lipton, and he thought he’d probably forgive him again and again if he had to because he knew he was, sometimes, very difficult to be with in any capacity.

He looked back at Kitty and twisted a finger next to his head, signing that he was crazy, “Hospitals.” He offered, and turned away again. There was a sudden pressure on his shoulder, and his first instinct was to pull away, before he realised that it was just Kitty trying to comfort him. She didn’t necessarily achieve her objective, but the soft humming noise she made and the gentleness of her hand gripping his shoulder reminded him of his Nana and that was about as close to comfort as he was going to get for the moment.

When the door opened again and Lipton stepped out, followed closely by a girl, Speirs thought that finally, finally, they might be able to leave.

“What did he say?” Andi asked, looking anything but interested.

The girl, which Speirs assumed was Carrie, pushed some mousey brown hair out of her face and looked at the ground, “He wants some time to work out what he wants. I dunno.” She shrugged, “Can we go home?”

Kitty took her hand from Speirs and wrapped an arm around Carrie’s shoulders instead.

“Of course.” She began to lead Carrie away, then looked over her shoulder at Speirs and Lipton. “See you later, Ron.  _Carwood_.” She winked at them and turned away again.

Speirs shifted an inch towards Hoobler’s room, to do what he wasn’t entirely sure, but he reasoned that since he was already there he might as well check on Hoobler, right?

But clearly, Lipton thought this was a bad idea because he grabbed Speirs by the arm, stopping him going any further.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. He’s still terrified of you after the threatening note you taped to his forehead.”

“It wasn’t threatening. It wasinformative.” Speirs drew his eyebrows together, affronted. “I was  _informing_  him that you required  _six stitches_.”

“Threatening.” Lipton’s mouth curled into a half smile and he shook his head. “Let’s go home, alright?”

Lipton tugged on the leather of Speirs’ jacket once and led him out of the ward.

It was far easier to get out of the hospital than it was to get in. While the halls still looked the same mint-green, they recognised the oddly-placed walkway-to-nowhere and took a left, eventually finding themselves back in the original elevator.

“Do you want to get a coffee?” Speirs asked suddenly, then immediately switched tactics and tried to play it off as nothing, “Or we could just go back to the dorm.”

He had his hands in his pockets again and was staring at the semi-reflective doors the elevator. The only indicator that Speirs felt anything but calm about his proposal was how he slightly bit his lip and glanced at Lipton from the corner of his eye.

For Lipton, his reaction mostly consisted of staring open-mouthed at Speirs for far longer than acceptable, and then eventually, just as the elevator doors slid open, he looked away and nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds… great.”


	10. The One With The Flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is everyone in bed? Does anyone even get OUT of bed this chapter? Or: taking care of your friends is important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS/HAPPY HOLIDAYS FOLKS! There was supposed to be a christmas interlude but guess who has poor time management skills? This girl! But a regular chapter for christmas is acceptable, right?
> 
> Also a mega thank you to doro91 and scdraw who commented last chapter and made me feel better about all the speirton AND to my tumblr anon who somehow found my tumblr via this fic. You should come back to talk to me because I miss you.
> 
> As always, huge thanks to the best bestie for beta-ing on christmas eve you're a christmas miracle! <3

Somebody in Starbucks sneezed on Lipton.

Which, at the time, didn’t seem like a big deal. It was a sneeze. It wasn’t that close to him, and Lipton was not prone to illness. He’d once survived an entire boarding house full of people sick with food poisoning ( _not_ his mothers fault _at all -_ the refrigerator broke without anyone realising) that mysteriously never affected him.

Unfortunately, this did not turn out to be one of his lucky escapes. Within two days he was sick. Within four the whole dorm was shivering and coughing and falling asleep standing up, with the exception of four people who seemed to have remained flu-free; Speirs, Luz, Webster and Babe.

The problem _really_ started when Roe, who had been jumping between dorm rooms with various bottles of medication and ordering everyone to drink water, almost passed out on Winters and Nixon’s couch after saying, “I’m okay, I just need to sit down.”

He sat down and then simply couldn’t get back up.

“Go to bed, Eugene. Someone else can look after us for a while.” Winters had said, patting Roe on the back and watching him get into the elevator and lean back, closing his eyes. He would have delivered him back to his dorm personally, but Winters was convinced that if he left the room again he would throw up.

After climbing back into bed, he pulled the overly-large fluffy blanket around himself and pressed his face into Nixon’s back.

“Doc okay?” Nixon sniffed, breathing heavily through his mouth because his nose was far too stuffed up to even attempt the more traditional method of oxygen acquisition.

“I sent him to bed. I feel like the mom friend.”

“You are the mom friend,” Nixon shifted, rolling over so he could look at his boyfriend and press his lips against the heated skin of his forehead, “Well, you and Lip. You’ve got a fever.”

Closing his eyes, Winters _hmm_ ed. Of course he had a fever; the whole _dorm_ had a fever, including Nixon.

“We’ve all got fevers. Sink is going mad that none of us have gone to classes since Wednesday.” Winters sniffed, his words punctuated with a series of half-coughs.

“What does he want us to do, infect the whole school?” Nixon said, looping an arm around Winters’ back and pulling him tighter into him. They might both have fevers, and it might have been too hot to be pressed as close as they were, but they were also suffering from severe shivers and chills, so it made no difference if they were touching or not, they were never going to find the perfect temperature.

There was a slight shrug from Winters before he changed the subject; “Have you decided what you’re doing for Christmas? Mom wants to know if she needs to set up the guest room.”

“Would we really need the guest room? We didn’t use it over the summer.” Nixon grinned, remembering how Mrs. Winters had set up the room for him when his parents abandoned him and  flew off to Barbados for the summer, and he’d ended up sleeping in Winters’ bed the whole time regardless. It was only logical, after all - they slept in the same bed all year at school and it wasn’t as if Mr. and Mrs. Winters (or “Call me Edith, dear. And this is Richard, as you know. Call him Rich.”) didn’t know that they were together.

“Maybe we could use it instead of my room. It _was_ a pain to have to change the sheets every two days.” Winters began to chuckle, but it descended into a hacking cough where he had to stop and force himself to breathe again. His breath was hot against Nixon’s chest.

Nixon rubbed his back and made the appropriate sympathetic noises. He hadn’t quite gotten to the stage of coughing up a lung yet, but if Winters was anything to go by it was going to be a wild ride of pain and inconvenience.

“And to think, you wore a purity ring in freshman year.” Winters rewarded his joke with a tired smile. “No, I think I’ll be with you for christmas. I definitely can’t do another happy Nixon family christmas, where there is no happy _or_ family involved.”

It wasn’t that Nixon was _bitter_ or anything… well, he was a little bit. Somewhere along the way he’d managed to get it into his head that christmas was supposed to be when your parents gave you presents and you played charades and wore paper hats at the table where everyone smiled and said nice things. At least, that’s the impression he’d got when he’d ended up at the Winters’ freshman year since his parents decided that christmas in Rio sounded like much more fun.

His childhood christmases had never been like that - sure there had been presents, there had been dinner, but there were no gaudy decorations or blinking lights, no paper hats at the table, no games or music or even smiles. Just a hundred glasses of sherry, a dismally prepared turkey and a black-tie boxing day event that required him to ‘play nicely with the other children’ who generally only wanted to talk about their new iPod or mini-Mercedes.

So yeah, Nixon’s christmases were about as commercial as they came. Christmas with the Winters’ was much closer to what he thought it should be - and now he was eighteen, he could _choose_ to be there, regardless of his parents being in the country or not.

“Mom will be delighted.” Winters kissed the skin above Nixon’s collar bone and pulled the blanket tighter.

“Not as delighted as me.”

* * *

Harry was having _the worst_ time with the flu. In his humble opinion, anyway.

He’d had to cancel his weekly date with Kitty, had to tell her that she couldn’t come over to look after him since not only was she still not allowed in the dorm, but was likely to get sick too, _and_ his roomie Buck had been throwing up for most of the day despite not having eaten for over twenty four hours. He was mostly down to retching.

On top of all of that, Roe hadn’t bustled in to force-feed them medication and water in six hours so his nose was stuffed up to his brain and his fever dreams had started to include badgers chasing him through the Chattahoochee forest. Badgers that looked remarkably like one Chef Sobel.

“Harry… Harry can you get me some water?” Buck’s weak voice floated through Harry’s open door. He groaned and rolled over on the bed, dragging a pillow with him and pressing it against his ears, trying to regain his lost sleep. Even the slightest noise was making his brain vibrate with pain.

“Can’t you get it yourself?” He grimaced, his own voice raking his eardrums.

“I’m,” A round of coughing, “sick.”

Harry sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. If Buck was sick they were probably all doomed anyway, and he should resign himself to an early death. Getting him a glass of water wasn’t going to be immediately fatal.

That didn’t mean he was pleased about it, though.

“We’re all damned sick.” He grumbled, shuffling out to the kitchenette.

The worst thing was, Buck was lying on the couch, wrapped in a bathrobe, a blanket and his bed covers, but he was still visibly shivering. It was irrationally cold in their dorm, either because the central heating had gone off or more likely because they were just at the point in their illness where heat did not register with them at all.  Either way the skin on Harry’s arms prickled and he was shivering all the way from the sink to the couch, where a shaking hand gratefully took the water.

“Thanks,” Buck mumbled, lifting his head to drink and then dropping back down into the nest of blankets.

“Has Doc been in while I was asleep? I think I’m dying.” Harry rasped, the sore throat he’d been fighting for two days made worse by not having anything to drink for a few hours. He was starting to regret not getting himself some water when he was getting it for Buck but… well now the kitchenette was _so far away_ , and he was _so very ill._

“Haven’t seen him.” Buck replied, clearly slipping back into sleep.

Harry ran his hands over his face and stood up again, a little light headed and wobbly, but he achieved it.

“I’m going back to bed.” He said, though Buck clearly wasn’t listening to him, and dragged himself back to the comfort of his still-warm bed.

* * *

Bill Guarnere never really took being sick very well. He’d once broken his leg in two different places and carried on walking around on his cast as if his leg  _wasn’t_ broken in two different places. So now that he had the flu, he’d tried to carry on as normal - apart from going to classes. If no one else in the dorm was going, Bill wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth by actually attending when he could just play up how sick he was.

That morning, despite feeling like his brain might be about to leak out of his eyeballs, Bill started pottering. That kind of thing people do when they don’t have anything better to get on with; he was wandering. Poking things in the kitchenette. Tapping Joe Toye on the shoulder as he passed the couch. Standing absently in the hall to see if anyone was going to leave their rooms that day.

He did not think anyone was going to leave their rooms that day.

Inside, Toye had bundled himself up on the couch. He too, wasn’t quite as sick as the rest of the dorm, but his head was aching from one side to the other as if someone had put a particularly tight rubber band around his cranium that was slowly squeezing his skull together, and every three minutes or so he would sneeze up some decidedly disgusting-looking mucus.

“The fuck is this on your head?” Bill asked as he passed behind the couch, picking up the offending object by what appeared to be an ear.

Toye grabbed at the furry hat and yanked it out of Bill’s grasp, back onto his head.

“It’s my spirit hood. It makes me feel better.”

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“It’s obviously a wolf.” Toye proceeded to sneeze into a clump of over-used tissue, and then side-eyed Bill as he sat next to him.

“It’s fuckin’ ugly, bro.”

“So’s your face.”

Bill laughed, that long _haaaaah_ that all the boys from Philly tended to emit when something tickled them, then he kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and settled back into the couch.

“You wanna watch somethin’? That dumb musical always makes ya happy.”

Toye grimaced, hating himself for even telling Bill that his favourite film to watch to make himself feel better was _Grease._ But he was sick, and he did have a deep desire to feel better than his current condition, so he nodded and wrapped his blanket further around himself while Bill dug out the DVD and made him soup and told him to chill the fuck out because the flu was not the end of the world.

* * *

The flu was pretty much the _best_ thing that had ever happened to Babe. All that time spent with Roe! He was having the damn time of his life, even if most of it was spent getting his friends water and tucking them in for their third nap of the day. He still found a way to enjoy it because he very much enjoyed hanging out with Roe.

That was right up until Roe stumbled back into his dorm, shambled past Babe making lunch in the kitchenette and near enough collapsed onto his bed.

“Gene?” Babe asked, hovering in the open bedroom doorway.

Roe, face down in a pillow, mumbled something in french and twisted his head to look at Babe.

“’S just the flu.” He said, closing his eyes.

Babe shuffled forward into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Roe looked damn awful; his skin paler than usual and dark circles beneath his eyes. Babe eased Roe’s shoes off and tucked the bed covers around him.

“You want some food?”

Roe shook his head and closed his eyes, intent on sleep.

“Okay,” Babe pushed the hair away from Roe’s forehead and deliberated a second on what he was supposed to do then. As far as he knew it was just him, Luz, Speirs and Webster left who weren’t sick. And no-one had seen Speirs or Webster for days.

Babe didn’t know how to take care of people! He’d been taking all of his cues from Roe - when to make people eat even if they didn’t want to, when to give them more medication, if they needed sugar or sleep. His mom had done all of that for Babe; he was the baby of their family so he’d never had to be responsible for anyone else. Now he felt like he was responsible for about thirty overgrown whinging children with absolutely zero experience.

Within minutes of closing his eyes, Roe was asleep and Babe was left to work out a game plan for himself.

“I can do this.” He said to himself, standing up. “Yeah. I’m an adult, I can totally handle this.”

Babe seemed to have forgotten one very important detail: he was not an adult… and he could not handle it.

To his credit, he did try. In fact, he tried very hard. From dorm hopping every four hours to top up everyone’s medication (and due to the number of victims claimed, by the time he had finished one round it was almost time for the next) to holding the wash bowl as one of them threw up things they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“Do you know why there’s always carrots in vomit? Seriously, there’s always carrots.” He sighed, crumpling to the floor next to Roe’s bed the next day. His whole body was aching, and his chest felt tight with a cough that hadn’t decided to be a cough just yet.

Roe almost laughed, but suck his head over the side of the bed and squinted at Babe.

“Doctors say it’s bits of the stomach lining. Who’s been throwin’ up?”

“Who _hasn’t_ been throwing up?” Babe yawned and then winced when his chest finally ripped through with the promised cough. The force of it caused him to roll forwards, throwing his arms out to grasp blindly at the carpet as his lungs worked to gain oxygen again.

“Babe?” Roe had slipped quietly out of his blankets and was sat next to him, rubbing his back in circles. Babe finally stopped coughing, breathing hard and uneven as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up.

Suddenly his nose wrinkled and he took three sharp breaths before a delicate sneeze escaped him.

Roe blinked, amazed that his sneeze sounded so tiny compared to his usual loudness.

“‘M okay!” Babe asserted, throwing his hands up in defence and shuffling backwards. Roe grabbed one of his wrists and used his free hand to check Babe’s temperature. His skin was burning, like touching the ceramic of a mug when it had just been filled with hot water. Too hot to touch.

“Congratulations, ya’ve got the flu.” He joked, his own voice cracking just a bit under the strain of a sandpaper throat.

“Nooooo,” Babe whined dramatically, tipping his head back so it rested against the mattress.

“‘Fraid so,” Roe nodded, grabbing a blister packet of pills from the bedside table and popping two out. “Take these and get some sleep.”

Babe swallowed the pills dry and clambered over Roe to get onto the bed (which was a highly unnecessary move), very nearly kicking him in the stomach on the way. When he was finally in the bed, Roe sighed and rolled his eyes.

“I mighta meant your own bed,” He said, standing up and looking down at Babe very happily snuggled into the pillows with the blanket already wrapped around him up to his neck. Seeing Babe grinning from ear to ear made Roe regret that he’d meant for him to go back to his own dorm. “But I guess you can stay here.”

“It’s warm and smells like you.” Babe mumbled happily, already slipping into sleep. Roe was quite jealous that he seemed to have the ability to go from 100 to 0 so quickly, but still smiled and swiped Babe’s cheek with his thumb and turned to take some of the pills he’d given Babe for himself.

And there were none left. Roe had kept that packet back from everyone else because he just knew that Babe would get sick sooner or later, but over the last day he’d managed to whittle it down to the last two pills. Babe had just had them.

Roe threw the packet in the trash on his way out of the dorm, and hesitated a few seconds with his hand hovering over the brass plate of room 305 before bringing his closed fist down into a knock.

It took a while for Speirs to open his door, but when he did he looked Roe up and down and frowned. Roe was slightly embarrassed to be seen in his ratty old sweatpants and a shirt with a hole in the side, especially when Speirs looked no worse for wear despite the chaos of the dorm.

When he didn’t say anything, Roe lent one hand against the doorjamb to stop himself falling over (having not been on his feet for twenty four hours made his head swim) and opened his mouth, hoping that whatever was going to spill out wouldn’t be misinterpreted as a command.

“We’re outta meds,” He started, watching Speirs’ face morph from disinterest to mild concern with a quick skim of his hand through his hair, “I can’t get out to get more and Renée’s gone home for christmas already…”

“I’ve got it, Doc.” Speirs interrupted, his back teeth gritting. Roe didn’t know if that was his response to inconvenience or if (which was what he suspected) he was thinking about Lipton still being the worst off of everyone in the dorm.

“Thanks.” Roe mumbled as the door shut in his face. He wrinkled his nose and went back to his own room, looking in on Spina (sat up in bed, reading) as he passed and shut himself back in his room, momentarily forgetting that he had a sleeping Babe in his bed.

Babe had somehow managed - in all of five minutes - to not only fall asleep, but also starfish across the entire bed.

Roe walked around to the other side of the bed and sighed, sat down, picked up one of Babe’s arms and gently rolled him over so he was facing away. Then he got into bed himself and tried to go back to sleep, Babe’s even breathing forcing his to match, right up until Babe wheezed slightly and threw his arm back, smacking Roe in the chest and forcing out a strangled cough.

“ _Christ,_ ” He choked out, managing to dislodge the errant arm and get Babe back on his side of the bed. He didn’t know if Babe was really asleep or just pretending to be asleep to fuck with him, but Roe told him to stay on his side of the bed anyway and turned over to wait for Speirs to locate some more medication and finally get some more sleep.

* * *

Strangely, some people really enjoy being sick. It means someone will look after them, comfort them, do absolutely anything for them for a few days.

Webster was one of these people. However, this time, fate was not so kind as to infect him. Instead, it was his boyfriend who got sick, and Liebgott was definitely _not_ one of the people who enjoyed it.

When he wasn’t sleeping, he was mouthing off about something. When he wasn’t mouthing off about something, he was mouthing off about Webster. _To_ Webster.

Which he knew wasn’t fair because Webster was doing just about everything he could to look after him and he appreciated it, he really did, but he just didn’t seem to be equipped with the genes that allowed for words like ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’.

The second day of being sick, Liebgott was bundled up in bed, trying desperately to breathe through his nose even though he knew all attempts were futile, and tossing and turning, just waiting for Webster to quit studying and come back to comfort him.

And since Webster had become pretty engrossed in whatever he was reading, it was going to take a while. This frustrated Liebgott.

“Why do you have so many pillows?” He griped loudly, fully intending to irritate Webster into paying attention to him again. “There are _nine_ pillows in here. You sleep like a goddamn princess.”

There was a loud, long-suffering sigh from the couch, which Liebgott could just about gimpse through the cracked door. Webster snapped his book shut and nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, arms crossed and one eyebrow lifted.

“Why are you even in my room?” He asked lightly, knowing full well that Liebgott would never have gone back to his own room whether he was sick or not. He enjoyed the intimacy of sharing a bed with someone way, way too much.

Liebgott shot him a disgusted look, “Where the fuck else would I be?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe your own room?” Webster’s lips curled into sarcastic smile, but he still moved into the room to sit on the bed. It was all Liebgott wanted: someone to demonstrate that they cared that he was sick, and lacking the ability to get out of bed.

“But Perconte is _so_ small and angry.” Liebgott frowned, closing his eyes again. Webster leaned forward and kissed his forehead, noting that his fever seemed to have gone down and he was no longer shivering, as he had been when Babe had come in with decongestants and ibuprofen a few hours before.

“As opposed to you. You are of average height and angry.” He laughed, their faces inches apart as Liebgott opened one eye and _pouted_.

Then he stuck his tongue out and hissed, “Fuck you, I’m sick.”

Webster chuckled and moved off of the bed again, leaving Liebgott to pretend to sleep for another hour before starting to complain again.

Having given up on studying, Webster had managed a solid half hour of reading useless wikipedia articles before he heard Liebgott call for him again.

“David…” He had definitely fallen into the self-pity camp somewhere along the way because he dragged his name out like a child who had been denied candy.

Frowning, Webster put his laptop down and once again moved to stand in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed and lent up against the doorframe.

“You never call me David.” He said, trying to count the amount of times Liebgott had actually called him by his first name. It was a very short list, if you didn’t count his weird obsession with calling him David when they were having sex. It was limited mostly to times when he wanted something. “Unless we’re having sex. Or you want something.”

“I want something.” Liebgott said, easing himself up the three pillows he had been lying on so he was sitting.

Webster sighed, “Go on.”

“Can you read something to me?”

 _What an odd request_ , Webster thought. It wasn’t something Liebgott had ever asked for before. Webster had read to him on occasion, but only to make sure that he understood what their English assignment was on. Liebgott had fallen asleep less than half a chapter in.

“What do you want me to read?” He asked, unfolding his arms and tilting his head. He hoped to god that he had whatever Liebgott wanted to hear.

“That gay greek thing. The one you cried about for three days.”

This was about the time that Webster’s mouth dropped open.

“ _The Song Of Achilles_? You’re kidding, right? It’s heartbreaking.”

Liebgott grinned; this was exactly what he wanted to hear. There was nothing like emotional pain on top of physical pain.

“You loved it, I want to know what it’s about. Please?” He begged, staring up at Webster with his very, _very_ best puppy dog eyes and batting his lashes. It never failed, mostly because Webster would do almost anything for him regardless of whether he begged or screamed or gave him the cold shoulder.

Webster sighed, “Fine, fine. Move over.” He waved a hand to make Liebgott move over in the bed so he had room to sit down and located the book on his shelf before climbing in and letting Liebgott rest his head in his lap.

“You’re going to hate me after this.” He said, and started reading.

Webster had been reading for more than forty five minutes and Liebgott was still awake, which was a surprising outcome since he had expected him to fall asleep quickly, especially given that he was running one hand through Liebgott’s hair as he read and that always had him asleep in minutes.

Eventually he yawned and buried his head into Webster’s thigh and mumbled something that Webster didn’t quite catch.

“Huh?”

“I should be the one reading this to you.” He repeated, kicking the bedspread off of his legs so it fell over his middle, knotting it in his hands as he wriggled around to look at Webster again.

“Why?”

“Because it’s written from Patroclus’ point of view, and he keeps talking about how pretty Achilles is.” Webster smiled slightly and nodded at his words. “You’re pretty like Achilles.” He finished with an almost-smile, made noticeable only by his cheeks lifting slightly.

“Joe…” Webster sighed, rolling his eyes. Liebgott very much enjoyed pointing out that Webster was _pretty;_ whether he was complimenting or complaining about it very much depended on his mood.

“It’s true, take the compliment.” Liebgott said, sitting up and shifting so that he could lie on one of the nine pillows Webster kept, curling himself up into Webster’s side. “You’re not getting any more while I’m sick.” He yawned and patted the open book in Webster’s lap so he would keep reading.

Webster shook his head in amusement, slid further down the pillows so he was almost laid down, continuing to read until Liebgott’s breathing had slowed and he was asleep, then decided that a nap wasn’t such a bad idea. 

It was the first time they’d managed to sleep in the same bed without either of them complaining about being elbowed, cold feet, or one of them stealing the covers.

* * *

Sometimes fever dreams are nightmares. Sometimes you wake up drenched in sweat, running from masked killers in the woods or listening to your mother babble and spew gibberish on her deathbed (even if she isn’t dying). Sometimes they’re just plain weird - shapes and noises that don’t make an ounce of sense.

Lipton didn’t have nightmares with his fever. He woke up too many times to understand anything his brain created while he was asleep, but he still woke up sweating and shivering.

His most interesting dreams involved him waking up in his dorm room to Speirs wearing a hole in the carpet by his bed from pacing, then sitting down in his swivel chair and just _watching_ Lipton sleep. It bordered on Edward Cullen levels of creepy, but just about every time he saw Speirs he felt a little bit better, less feverish.

Just as the sun was setting through the left-open curtains, Popeye wandered in, wearing a blanket as a cape to fight off the chills and stared at him for a few moments before cautiously asking, ”Are you and Spooky Speirs actually dating? He’s been in four times to check on you. Scared the shit out of me when I first saw him.”

Lipton groaned; this was not a conversation he wanted to embark on when he was potentially dying from the flu. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted when we wasn’t potentially dying from the flu either, since that just served to remind him that he had no damn idea how to ask Speirs if he had _feelings_ for him because whenever he thought about bringing it up, some new disaster befell the dorm and he felt the intense desire to help clean up the fallout. That tended to put a halt to his plans.

Maybe he should just get wasted and kiss him and see what happens. It would probably be easier than trying to use his words.

“Don’t call him that.” Lipton mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes, contemplating the idea that his fever dreams of Speirs weren’t dreams at all.

Popeye was silent for a while, a performance art piece standing comically in the doorway, confused and lost.

“Yeah but,” He finally stammered, “You’re dating him right? You wouldn’t care if I called him Spooky Speirs if you weren’t.”

“Have you ever heard of a thing called ‘friends’?” Lipton asked, punctuating his sentence with a phlegmy cough that had him rolling on to his side to ease his chest. It felt like Bull was sitting on him if he stayed on his back too long.

“You mean the TV show?”

“No, the… never mind. We’re not dating.” Lipton sorely hoped that would be the last time he had to defend their non-relationship status to someone.

(He kind of also hoped that the next time someone asked that question he could just say ‘yes’ and move on.)

“I think you should.” Popeye hummed and disappeared back into his own room, just as their front door opened and a mysterious figure walking backwards and carrying a cardboard box shuffled in, kicking the door closed in front of them and turning in to the room.

Speirs stopped when he saw Lipton awake and half sat up in bed, startled so much that he almost dropped his box.

“You’re awake.” He said, and smiled, the whole action lighting up his face like Lipton had never actually seen before.

“Yeah,” Lipton croaked, his throat closing up to choke away his words.

“You look better,” Speirs said, crossing the boundary into Lipton’s room where he set the mysterious box down on the bed and pressed his palm to Lipton’s forehead. “You’re not as warm, either.”

Blinking, Lipton swatted Speirs’ hand away at the wrist. “I don’t feel any better.” He confessed, folding his legs beneath the sheets and sitting up properly. Speirs took his seat in the swivel chair, rolled to the side of the bed and nudged the box.

“Good thing I brought you this, then.”

Skeptical, Lipton started to unload the box: a bottle of NyQuil, DayQuil, a pack of Theraflu dissolvable with (hilariously) Lipton Tea flavouring (Speirs smiled and bit his lip when Lipton saw that one), and something soft and squishy at the bottom of the box.

Pulling it out, Lipton found it to be a cherry red kitted scarf. He held it in his hands, looking up at Speirs with a questioning look.

Speirs ducked his head and rubbed his jaw. “Nana knitted it for you. It was supposed to be your christmas present but… I mentioned that you had the flu and she told me to give it to you.” When Lipton didn’t respond, he continued, “I know you don’t get the flu from being cold, it’s a virus, but it’ll help with the… you’re wearing it.”

He had looked up briefly to find Lipton very thoroughly enjoying the scarf - it was folded in half and wrapped around his neck, then tucked into the loop.

“This is great,” He beamed, gently tugging on the loose end to tighten it. Speirs laughed and stood up to leave again.

“I’m glad you like it. Take some of that NyQuil and go back to sleep.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and made for the door.

“Hey Ron,” Lipton called. Speirs immediately turned around.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” He said. “And tell your Nana thanks.”

Speirs smiled again, “You can probably tell her yourself soon. She’s been dying to talk to you.”

Whilst confused, Lipton felt a very odd warmth spread through his chest, like he’d just downed a lot of cough medicine or a very hot drink. Except that he hadn’t, and the feeling had more to do with the notion that Speirs had very obviously been talking to his Nana about him.

“I’m not very interesting to talk to.” Lipton said, watching his hands shake.

Immediately Speirs countered him, “I think you are.” He looked embarrassed to have said it, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks as he very quickly looked away and cleared his throat, asking, “Do you want something to eat before I go?”

Lipton shook his head. He didn’t feel up to eating. He mostly just wanted to sleep off his illness so he could go back to being a normal human being who did normal things like make their own food and get out of bed in the mornings.

“Okay. I’ll check on you in a while.” Speirs stepped out of the room, catching the door with his index finger on the way so that it half-closed.

Lipton waited for the main door to close behind him, unscrewed the cap from the NyQuil and gulped straight from the bottle - an imprecise science that Lipton wasn’t necessary skilled at. Nonetheless, it did the job because he settled down and fell asleep after five minutes of running that last conversation over, and over, and over, and over, and…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (also if you wanna hang out on tumblr you can find me at georgeluzz.tumblr.com)


	11. The One Where There Isn't An Alien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's pranks, and there is not aliens. Sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned from the war! Jokes, I'm back at uni so technically I am back at war.  
> But here, have a chapter that doesn't feature aliens.  
> Massive thanks to all who have commented, kudosed, and talked me through very late nights writing assignments and sections of fic. You are loved, every single one of you.  
> Enjoy!

Immediately following the winter holidays, Easy Block had become a war zone, and the chaos spread faster than wild fire.

It had begun, naturally, with Luz. He’d arrived back at the dorm before anyone else, and taken it upon himself to quietly prank his dorm mates by running a length of near-invisible string along the bottom of the main doors so that anyone entering would trip over.

His first victim was Babe, who fell directly onto his nose (an incident followed quickly by a nosebleed and a fainting spell, before Roe arrived and fixed it _again_ ). Buck landed on his front and then wildly rolled across the room to the couches, laughing off the prank, and both Martin and Bull stumbled across the lobby before Luz realised that the first few arrivals had caused the string to come undone, and the rest of the dorm was noisily trampling in unimpeded.

But the story had lived on, and signalled a dorm-wide war.

They had considered splitting the teams by floor, but no-one on the second floor wanted to end up on the opposing team to Speirs, so it had become a free-for all, one that Muck, Malarkey and Penkala were more than happy to set in motion.

During the first day back in classes, because they couldn’t _possibly_ wait, they ditched health class to prepare. Health class was extraordinarily boring, due in part to being taught by Dike, who neither knew his way around an anatomically correct representation of genitalia _nor_ how to control a class of thirty rowdy teenagers, so it was unlikely they would be missed by anyone but Winters. It also happened to fall right before their assigned lunch period.

Creeping into the back of the school kitchens, Malarkey dropped to one knee next to a set of metal shelves and gestured dramatically with both hands to Muck and Penkala, indicating that the coast was clear. Sobel had vacated the kitchen due to an ‘emergency’ elsewhere involving contraband (an emergency that they had prepared especially) and he had left the kitchen empty, save for the pre-prepared food he had left bubbling at a low setting on the industrial stove.

Muck sniggered as he skittered passed Malarkey still knelt on the floor. “If I’d known you were gonna propose I would have worn something nicer.”

“You would have said yes regardless of what you were wearing.” Penkala said to Muck, offering Malarkey a hand to help him to his feet.

“True. Is it legal in this state yet?” Muck asked, removing the lid to a pot of what appeared to be bolognese sauce. Again.

“Not for the three of us,” Malarkey muttered, “Not sure on the other front.”

Muck sighed, tipping a bottle of the hottest hot-sauce they could find into the pot. “Oh well. There’s always next year.”

Penkala had busied himself with poking around the kitchen, but he wasn’t finding anything interesting, so when he came to a stop next to Muck and Malarkey, he grinned and looked into the bolognese.

“How much did you use?” He was reluctant to test the concoction to find out. Muck’s smile bordered on venomous, unusual and mildly terrifying.

“All of it.”

“You put the _whole_ bottle in?” Penkala clarified, certain then that his decision to not test it was the right one. Muck nodded happily, sliding the empty bottle back into his jeans pocket, where it stuck out as evidence of their crime. “Shit.”

* * *

Less than an hour after their excursion, they were sat in the cafeteria, plates of the vegetarian option in front of them. They weren’t stupid; there was no way they were going to subject themselves to the hot-sauce-infused bolognese.

They waved to a couple of boys from Alpha Block, who sneered and turned back to the line for food. Easy boys had the tendency to be fairly insular and not many of them ever socialised with the other dorms, so this behaviour from Alpha boys wasn’t unusual.

“What crawled up their butts and died?” Penkala frowned, looking across the table at Muck who was still waving at new arrivals to the room. “Stop that, it’s weird even for you and someone will figure out we’ve done something.”

Muck stopped abruptly, realising that Penkala was right.

“Look, there’s Speirs and Lip.” Malarkey nodded at the doors, where sure enough Speirs and Lipton had entered, followed closely by the rest of their dorm. Winters narrowed his eyes at the three of them, but said nothing. If he was pissed at them, it was because they cut class and not because he knew they had tampered with the food.

“This is going to be awesome.” Muck whispered, turning the greater part of his attention to his own plate, but continually stealing looks sideways to see how many of their dorm were about to get a mouthful of fire.

The boys of Easy Block had the tendency to group together, and it was no different in the cafeteria. A section of six tables in the back corner of the room were theirs, chosen by seniors long since graduated, and as they filled up, Muck was disappointed to notice that both Speirs and Lipton had the vegetarian option on the table in front of them.

Speirs, seated and looking incredibly smug, smiled at Muck. It was a smile that said _I know what you did_ , and Muck did not like that. He squeaked and ducked his head, whispering to Malarkey and Penkala, “He knows. Shit, Speirs _knows_ ,”

“Eat your food and pretend like you don’t know what’s going on.” Penkala advised, spearing a lettuce leaf on his fork. “I hate salad.”

Minutes later the first fork dropped to the floor as someone clawed at their throat. Seconds following that, at least half of the cafeteria were on their feet, trampling over one another to get water or milk or something, anything that would stop the burning in their mouths.

The cacophony of yelling that accompanied it allowed Muck to shout gleefully over the top, “This _is_ awesome!” and allowed Lipton to look at Speirs and say, “Good call,” without being noticed.

As the chaos raged, Webster decided that he had no idea what was happening, but that he found it immensely funny. One minute Liebgott was trying to talk around a mouthful of food and the next he was waving his hands around his open mouth, eyes watering, making noises that sounded like they belonged in the mouth of a dying racoon rather than a human.

He tried to get him to keep talking, but all Liebgott did was glare at him and chug both of their glasses of water. When that didn’t properly extinguish the fire, he slammed his palms on the table and stood up, eyeing the trio who were quietly giggling at the madness surrounding them.

“They did this,” He all but hissed, and stormed out of the cafeteria, probably in search of some milk and a better meal.

“Drama queen.” Webster said to no-one but himself, and followed.

The moaning and choking and general buzz of the hot sauce assault passed quickly, since most of the cafeteria fled early in the onslaught. Those that were left behind were left quietly laughing at their own misfortune, or in the case of Luz, manically bouncing over to the trio to congratulate them on their win.

“It wasn’t us.” Malarkey denied by default. If something happened, it wasn’t their fault. Ever. Nope, they never had anything to do with any pranks pulled.

“Dude, of course it was us!” Muck crowed, fist-bumping Luz, looking almost exactly like a picture Malarkey had once seen of a cat that got the cream.

Roe passed their table shortly after, his tray empty. He stopped for a short moment and gave them all a level gaze. “Coulda done with more hot sauce.”

He walked away with them staring after him in shock.

“Man, Doc is a badass.” Muck said, awed.

“So,” Penkala pushed his tray away from his body, fully done with both the taste and idea of salad, “Who are we expecting retaliation from?”

Inspecting a cube of cucumber on the end of his fork, Malarkey said, “Liebgott for sure. He was livid.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“I’d put money on Nix and Harry coming up with something. Maybe Guarnere and Toye.” Malarkey finished, crunching the cucumber between his teeth.

Muck nodded, slightly spaced out. He was already dreaming up another prank, another victim. “So, what shall we do next?”

* * *

There was quiet across the dorm for the following few days, broken only by  _someone_ taping up Cobb’s door with industrial strength duct tape, trapping Cobb inside for the first few class periods until he finally managed to cut a window to freedom.

That someone was _probably_ Liebgott, and they all knew it. He remained decidedly pissed off about the things Cobb had said about Webster two months before, and used just about every chance he was given to fuck with him. A prank war was perfect cover, since it could have been any one of the boys. But it was _probably_ Liebgott.

For the rest of them, though, things were _too_ quiet. Like a walk in a cemetery, or a classroom after hours. The trio especially were walking on eggshells, just waiting for retaliation, and they were getting restless.

“I’m gonna do it.” Muck announced, barging into 207 and throwing himself on top of Penkala on the couch. Penkala made an ‘oof’ noise, but otherwise didn’t take much notice of one of his boyfriends invading his space, merely lifting his game up slightly so that he could continue to play around Muck.

“Do what?” Malarkey asked, looking up from his homework, slightly alarmed. Muck’s fantastic ideas could be, and usually were, highly dangerous. And if they weren’t dangerous to someone else, they were dangerous to _him_.

“I’m going to prank Speirs.” He cooly announced, rolling over onto his back in Penkala’s lap and tipping his head, offering Malarkey an upside-down gin, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

Penkala dropped his game in shock as he emitted a high-pitched strangling noise that ended in a choke. This was not news he wanted to hear.

When he finally recovered he gripped both of Muck’s shoulders and leant over him, saying, “You really do have a death wish. If he finds out it’s you he’ll kill you. Or worse, he’ll make your life hell.”

Muck grinned up at him and kissed his nose. He was enjoying the general reaction to his plan.

Malarkey waved his pen in the air. “Pretty sure death is the worse option there. Also, you’re insane.” He said, going back to his homework, hopeful that Muck would abandon the idea to prank Speirs, or at least forget about it after he caught sight of the mounting pile of homework he still had to get through.

“Nah,” Muck shook his head, “he’s gone soft ‘cause of Lip.”

Malarkey considered this for a moment.

It was true, there had been a marked difference in Speirs since the beginning of the school year, and it did seem that an awful lot of that was due to Lipton’s near constant presence. He’d brought them all medication when the dorm had been overrun with the flu, he took Lip to the hospital (and brought him back alive, which was more than anyone expected in all honesty) and had thoroughly ruined their original dorm-wide prank of putting extremely hot hot sauce in the food, by saving himself and Lipton.

In fact, there had been little to no sign of the ‘spooky’ Speirs they all knew and (begrudgingly) loved for the better part of the year; the general recalcitrance was still there, and the whole mysterious/lonely/quiet thing he had going on, but damn if Muck wasn’t right that he’d definitely become… softer.

“I’m in.” Malarkey decided. Speirs was unlikely to kill them, he thought, and even if they brought his wrath down upon them, at least it would make for an interesting rest of the year. An all-out prank war with Speirs was bound to yield some interesting results.

“Don, no.” Penkala groaned, closing his eyes in frustration. Sometimes, he thought, his boyfriends could be worse than children.

“Don, _yes!_ “ Muck cheered. He rolled off of Penkala’s lap, landing on his knees and palms like a cat, and shuffled over to Malarkey sitting at the other end of the coffee table. “This is going to be great, I have so many ideas!” He sloppily kissed Malarkey’s cheek and turned to look at Penkala again.

Malarkey wiped the spit from his cheek, smiling fondly at his chosen humans, who were suddenly locked in a battle of wills.

He was pretty sure Muck was going to win; he had that look about him that indicated he was about to start begging.

“Come on, Alex!” Muck cried, clasping his hands together as if he was praying, “We _have_ to prank Speirs. He subverted the Hot Sauce plan! _And_ he saved Lip.” His bottom lip jutted out for a moment - a quintessential sign of Muck attempting to manipulate someone into agreeing to an underprepared, possibly life-threatening plan - and then his eyes opened wide with an epiphany and he declared: “We have to do something that involves both of them!”

Because that was definitely the logical next step.

Penkala sighed, scrunching his nose and choosing his words carefully as to not alert Muck that he had almost definitely just boarded the pranking-Speirs train. “What prank is going to _benefit_ Lip? I’m not going to do something that hurts him because that really _would_ put Speirs on the war path.”

Muck turned thoughtful for a moment, a sure sign that his plan was not quite as advanced as he had intended Penkala and Malarkey to assume. He flipped himself onto his behind and sat cross-legged as he thought, tapping his chin before having his _eureka_ moment and jabbing his finger to the sky.

“I’m gonna steal his clothes!”

“All of them?” Penkala asked, skeptical of the plan already. Stealing someone’s entire wardrobe would be difficult at best. They only had so many hands, since evolution hadn’t quit caught up to the idea that humans sometimes needed more hands than they currently possessed, and removing that many articles of clothing efficiently and quickly could prove impossible.

But stealing _all_ of _Speirs_ ’ clothes would be on an entirely new level of difficult because it depended on so many variables falling into place at the right times.

“Well, I might leave him a pair of boxers. Or briefs. Whatever underwear he chooses to wear.” Muck said thoughtfully. He wouldn’t _really_ leave Speirs without any clothes at all. That would just be cruel and might land Speirs in jail for indecent exposure in the presence of minors. Then Muck’s eyes lit up and he whispered, “Hey, what underwear _do_ you think he wears?”

Like this was an appropriate and normal line of conversation.

Penkala scoffed, dropping his game onto the couch. “I can’t say I have ever given Speirs’ choice in undergarments any thought.”

An interesting lie on his part. He had, in fact, thought about Speirs both _in_ and _out_ of his underwear. But that was a very long time ago, when he was just a tiny freshman who hadn’t realised that Speirs was basically an untouchable entity or that dating both of your best friends at the same time was really the way to go if you wanted eternal happiness.

“You know who probably has, though?” Muck’s grin widened, a hint of more than mischief playing at the edges.

“I swear to God if you say Lip…” Malarkey breathed, never finishing his sentence for Muck exclaiming, “Lip!” over the top of him.

Knocking his head against the couch back, Penkala groaned and said, “Christ almighty.”

He’d help in the plan, of course, but if Muck could restrain from shoving his nose into other people’s lives for the duration he’d be much happier for it.

“Look we’re on board, but I really need to finish this homework first.” Malarkey said, still diligently copying notes into a separate work book.

Muck spread himself out on the floor and smiled as they all went back to the activities they had been engaged in before he burst in with his ridiculous plan.

* * *

All things considered, it wasn’t actually any harder stealing all of Speirs’ clothes than it was putting hot sauce in the bolognese. They knew when he was out of his dorm for the longest amount of time - Tuesdays, when he was at the local community college for college-level Ancient History. They also knew that he, like just about everyone else in the dorm, usually left his dorm unlocked.

So on a Tuesday, when everyone was reliably unwinding from classes in their own rooms, they snuck up to the third floor, entered Speirs’ dorm, and fell over some books.

Well, they also emptied all of his drawers, but mostly they just tripped over books and marvelled that, “Dude, this one is in Latin. He knows _Latin_.”

“Don’t read from it, you might summon the Devil.” Muck advised, ripping the book out of Penkala’s hands and putting it back in the pile it came from. He very much believed that the Devil could be summoned with a few ill-advised phrases in Latin, and he also very much believed that Speirs would be in possession of said ill-advised Latin.

“I think we’ve got all of it,” Malarkey said, holding a black bin liner only half-full of clothes. Speirs apparently didn’t own that many clothes, but what he did own was very classy and meant to be worn to all events; plain black or white shirts, dark wash jeans, a very cool military-looking coat (dark blue), one particularly 90s-looking turtleneck sweater, and the usual leather gear he wore on his bike. They had left him with his underwear because they weren’t really mean enough to deprive him of that.

Penkala noted that he probably had to do his laundry twice a week, and wondered why he didn’t just buy more clothes. “I don’t actually think this is going to benefit Lip at all.” He said dryly as they left Speirs’ room in _almost_ the same condition they found it in.

* * *

After taking a shower, Speirs was not overly surprised that all of his clothes had gone missing. In fact, he figured out where they had disappeared to abnormally quickly, since the only people who had the guts to come into his room and pull something like this were either people he considered _friends_ , or people who were possibly just plain insane.

The trio fell into category two.

But he was very disappointed in their choice of prank. Stealing clothes was low-level, and Speirs was convinced that they could do so much better. He would have told them as much immediately, if not for the fact that he would have been doing so in only a pair of socks and boxers.

With one last disappointed look into an open drawer, Speirs knelt next to the bed and dragged out an old backpack. It was frayed on one of the corners, patterning a series of small holes, likely the work of mice in Boston when a large portion of his belongings were relegated to the basement.

Inside, Speirs kept spare clothes for moments such as these.

No, it was not that Speirs was psychic or particularly paranoid that people would be stealing his clothes. It was just that he believed fervently in back-up. Even if that back-up was three years old and of very questionable style.

It would do for a trip to 207 to reacquire his wardrobe.

* * *

Nothing in Speirs’ emergency bag of clothes fit him right, and that made him two things he hated being: uncomfortable and self-conscious.

The constant reminder from his brain that the last time he’d worn those particular clothes was, at best, when he was fifteen, kept him hovering in the open elevator on the second floor for several minutes before finally finding the courage to bang on 207’s door with more force than strictly necessary. He had run through the idea that he was going to be _overly_ polite when the door opened, because that kind of thing always set people on edge. False niceties confused people, made them fearful for the inevitable revenge, and Speirs was  _very_ interested in the idea of people fearing him.

His excessive knocking was enough to alert the neighbouring rooms. Liebgott popped out from 208, snickering at something inside the room. He stopped when he saw Speirs, regarded him for a few seconds longer than anyone should regard ever Speirs, and finally said, “You look like my boyfriend.” He promptly began snickering again.

Speirs glowered. His fifteen year old self glowered. “Go. Away.” He ground out through clenched teeth.

Liebgott threw his hands up, still laughing and disappeared into the room again.

“He’s right, you know,”

Speirs fought the urge to bash his head into the wall, very, very hard. He’d not registered Nixon opening the door behind him.

“I do not look like Webster. This,” He gestured to his outfit, “Is not pretentious enough.”

Nixon snorted, then took a closer look at Speirs’ clothes.

“That’s a v-neck.”

“Yes.”

“It’s yellow.”

“Gold star.”

“Those are _skinny jeans_.”

“Congratulations, you’ve won a vacation to the Bahamas.” Speirs turned back to the door of 207 and knocked again, harder. “Are you going to point out all of the details of my clothes? Because my socks are from Target and my watch is an unspecific brand.”

By that point, Muck had steeled himself enough to slowly open the door and peer through, a move not ignored by Speirs, who smiled sharply with his teeth and gently pushed on the bottom of the door with his foot to open it further.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me.” He said.

Muck nodded wordlessly, his confidence suddenly sapped by the vicious-looking but not altogether unpleasant smile, and opened the door fully to let Speirs enter.

Luz was hiding behind the couch, head and eyes barely visible as he watched Speirs check the otherwise unoccupied room for his clothes. Although he was not directly involved in liberating the clothes, he still feared the repercussions. Malarkey and Penkala had made themselves scarce, hiding behind the shower curtain where Speirs was unlikely to check for missing possessions.

Having found the black bag of his clothes lurking under the breakfast bar, Speirs straightened up and breezed past Muck, turning back to him slightly when he reached the door to incline his head and smile once more before slowly closing the door between them.

Nixon was waiting in the hall for him.

Exhaling sharply, Speirs made for the elevator, avoiding eye contact with Nixon. If he didn’t acknowledge it, maybe it would go away.

“Has Lip seen you in that yet?” No such luck. Nixon was following him to the elevator, past the open door to 201 where Speirs could see Winters, pen in hand, devoting an unusual amount of attention to a dorm blueprint.

“Why did you think that was an appropriate question?” Speirs entered 201 uninvited. Being invited was overrated. “No, he hasn’t, and he’s not going to.”

“So you do care what he thinks about you.”

“Lew, knock it off.” Winters said suddenly, but with as much practice as you could expect from someone who lived with Nixon ninety percent of the year.

Nixon’s smug grin stretched across his face, knowing that he was teetering on the very edge of acceptable teasing.

Speirs, leaning over Winters’ shoulder, took in the scrawled notes in the margins and multiple X’s marked over what he supposed were strategic points around the building.

“Are you planning a prank or an invasive manoeuvre?” Speirs asked, tapping a finger to the centre of a blueprint for the roof. “You want an X there.”

“A bit of both,” Winters said, uncapping a magic marker to place an X where Speirs had pointed out.

“Does this prank involve illegal activity?” Speirs asked lightly, leaning his back against the breakfast bar and looking down at the plans and a list of something labeled ‘resources’. His name was on the list.

“I would imagine so. Do you know how to get a hold of fireworks by any chance?”

Speirs nodded, “Of course. What kind?” That was probably the reason for his inclusion on the list.

“Rockets and roman candles.” Nixon said. He looked briefly over the plans and nodded. “Five rockets, one roman candle. Maybe more if we’re feeling fancy.”

“I can handle that.” Speirs hoisted the black back into his arms, ready to leave again. “When are we doing this?”

Winters folded over the blueprints so conceal them. “This weekend. Friday or Saturday night.”

Speirs nodded. That gave him enough time to acquire fireworks _and_ the items needed for revenge on room 207.

“Good to have you on board, Sparky!” Nixon called, just as Speirs was closing the door on his way out. He huffed and decided then and there that this better be the best senior prank to ever senior prank, or else his four years of being called ‘Sparky’, ‘Spooky Speirs’ or any variation thereupon would have been entirely wasted.

* * *

The first thing Speirs heard on the third floor was a combination of an argument and begging. He’d made it halfway out of the elevator, and walked directly into some form of inter-dorm-room conference, featuring his friend Chuck Grant insisting that revenge must be enacted on Muck, Malarkey and Penkala, and Lipton trying to tell him that _it would only make things worse, Jesus Christ, Grant, can’t I get any peace here?_

“I’m working on it.” Speirs said, placing a hand on Grant’s shoulder and momentarily forgetting his cheerful yellow v-neck and skinny jeans.

Grant looked down, looked up, looked down again.

“Wow.” Was all he had for about thirty seconds before his face split into a mad grin and he said, “Daaaaaamn, what happened? You look good, by the way. The jeans are-“ He connected his thumb and forefinger in the universal symbol for ‘okay’, which somehow began to mean ‘good shit’ when emojis were invented.

Speirs did not understand this. He couldn’t fail to notice Lipton’s embarrassed/confused/shocked face as his attention slowly ran the length of Speirs’ body and met his gaze with a raised eyebrow.

“Stop.” He said, neither to Grant or to Lipton, closing his eyes. He thought about explaining the situation so that no-one got any ideas about his style choice, but in the end he just sighed and shoved past the congregation to get to his room and change clothes as quickly as possible. Then he was going out to find something that would _really_ ruin the next few days for 207.

* * *

Two days later, on a cold but sunny Thursday morning, Skip Muck woke up with the impossible idea that he should goad one of his boyfriends into sharing the shower with him.

He didn’t know why he wanted such a thing; maybe some fairy had whispered the idea into his ear during the night, or maybe Thursdays were just liminal days where strange thoughts occurred.

Either way, he wanted one of them in the shower with him and he was going to get what he wanted.

Malarkey agreed on the condition that shower sex was _not_ to be attempted in any way, shape, or form.

They didn’t realise anything was wrong with the shower until they were standing in the living area, towels around their waists, Penkala stood in the door of their bedroom doubled over with laughter.

Tears pricking at his eyes, he tried to say, “You look like a pair of Smurfs!” but he only managed, “You - hahahaa- look- hahamffp - Smmmmupfs!” Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, until Malarkey turned to Muck and saw that from his head to his chest he was stained a solid blue colour, from his chest to his feet was a lighter hue, trickling like water to pool at his newly light blue feet.

“Holy crap,” He said, reaching out to try and rub some of the blue from Muck’s collar. It didn’t budge.

Muck didn’t seem particularly phased by his new blue colour. In fact, his first and only reaction was to laugh and start singing, “ _I’m blue da-ba-dee-da-ba-die…_ ” whilst he got ready for class.

“I’m not going to class like this,” Malarkey asserted from the bathroom. He was rubbing aggressively at his face with a wash cloth, trying to get the blue to un-blue, but it was not budging.

Penkala ran the shower behind him until it came out clear.

“How did you not notice this when you got in?” He laughed, getting in to the shower himself, “Also someone un-screwed the shower head and put blueing tablets in there.”

“I was distracted.”

Muck laughed somewhere in the dorm, but his laugh was overridden by Luz cackling, “What an epic prank! Wish I’d thought of this one.”

Unfortunately, it seemed like the majority of the dorm had suffered the same blue fate. In the lobby, at least one person from each room looked something akin to a Smurf, and this apparently correlated with whoever had taken a shower first.

Liebgott and Webster were both blue.

Neither Winters or Nixon were blue.

Speirs was incredibly un-blue, but also infinitely smug, having witnessed the wide-spread damage he had managed to cause with a few bluing tablets and a lot of spare time.

“You look blue.” Speirs said to Malarkey when he caught up with him outside the dorm. He obviously meant the feeling and not the colour, and was particularly proud of his terrible joke because jokes were not usually his thing. He was not quick enough to think of jokes on the spot; he needed time to let them to mature and evolve, like fine wine.

Incidentally, he’d been working on that one all night, and all it got was a snort from a nearby Bull (not blue) and a withering look from Malarkey himself, who had pulled a hood as far around his face as possible to avoid anyone catching sight of his Smurfy appearance.

Still smiling to himself about his excellent joke skills, Speirs sped up to catch Winters and Lipton.

“I know it will be your last year and you’ll be busy with college applications, but you’re the only one I would trust to look after the dorm. Of course, since the upcoming senior class is so big, you can choose a few of the other boys to help you…” Winters was in the middle of asking Lipton to essentially take over his job as Head of Dorm the next school year, when he saw Speirs fell into step with them on Lipton’s other side. He nodded briefly and returned his attention to Lipton, saying, “Think about it.” before Lipton even had a chance to voice his concerns, and slowing down his gait long enough to align himself with a trudging Nixon several steps behind.

It was a very interesting exchange, one that most of them were familiar with on the walk to class; speeding up and slowing down enough to walk and talk with different friends.

Lipton blinked, bewildered at Speirs’ sudden appearance (not that he had any right to be bewildered: Speirs had the tendency to appear and disappear in the blink of an eye, a fact that Lipton was very familiar with). They didn’t speak for a few minutes, finally coming upon the main building and letting most of the dorm pass them in a steady stream of blue and white. Lipton counted fourteen blue faces, though he was sure he missed some. Babe looked particularly blue, but it may have been the result of a terrific colour clash with his hair.

“You did this,” Lipton noted. Speirs had been waiting for this conversation, so he’d settled himself in his usual stance of leaning casually against the doorframe.

He nodded in reply.

“Popeye isn’t blue, and neither am I. You didn’t tamper with our shower.”

Speirs shook his head slowly, only once, the curve of a smile lifting his cheeks. He realised that this was not much of a conversation, just Lipton pointing out things which they both already knew.

“Why not?” Lipton asked, both genuinely curious and genuinely afraid that the answer was not going to be what he wanted. _What did he want?_ Cue panic mode. He didn’t know what he wanted Speirs’ answer to be and Speirs was already opening his mouth to say something and oh no, no, no.

“The bluing tablets were only good for one shower. I didn’t know if you or Popeye showered first.” Speirs shrugged.

Lipton opened his mouth to say that that wasn’t an answer, but Speirs was already saying, “I didn’t want you to end up blue. You didn’t do anything to deserve that.” and then looking remorseful for having cut off whatever Lipton was about to say.

Lipton swallowed hard, suppressing the words that had come into his head: “That’s two pranks you’ve saved me from.”

He could have gone with, _cool_ , could have gone with, _you should wear the skinny jeans again_ , could have gone with, _yellow suits you, by the way_ , all of which were swirling around in his head, each thought bumping into another and forming new combinations of _I really, really like you and would like to kiss your face sometime_.

He was glad that what came out of his mouth was significantly less clichéd than it could have been.

“I don’t think I can save you from the next one.” Speirs replied conspiratorially, righting himself on his feet and opening the door to go to class.

Lipton raised an eyebrow and followed him into the main building, immediately concerned that someone was planning something big, but also terribly grateful that he wasn’t being asked to get involved.

* * *

The seniors were not prepared _at all_ for how wrong their prank was going to go.

If someone had said to them _‘hey, maybe you shouldn’t dress up as ninjas and set off four rockets around the dorm and one on the roof, and maybe you shouldn’t set off a roman candle that close to the electrical generator, and maybe you should all just chill out’_ , they probably would have told that someone to get lost because it was an _excellent_ prank.

Around midnight, the five seniors had left their rooms, sporting black face paint and dressed all in black, equipped with several large rockets, one roman candle and a handful of disposable lighters that Speirs had procured from somewhere - he remained reticent to divulge their origins, no matter how many times Nixon or Harry begged him to say.

“You both manage to get your hands on enough alcohol as it is. If you knew where to get fireworks too we’d all be in big trouble.” Winters said firmly, planting the first rocket in the ground near the westerly corner of the building, just far enough away to ensure that it wouldn’t fly directly into someone’s window or the fragile red brick that made up the dorm.

Speirs held out the bag with the four remaining rockets. Harry, Nixon and Buck each took one, leaving Speirs with the last and a roman candle.

They regarded each other in the pale light drifting from the lobby windows. Each looked like their own ghost: abnormally pale, smudges of black paint creating shadows across their cheeks, even as they looked like shadows themselves.

All of the lights on level two and three were out - unusual for a Friday night, but not unheard of, and not undesirable conditions for their prank.

Winters asked if they were all sure they wanted to be involved. Harry grinned, happy to be wreaking havoc. Nixon nodded solemnly, though no-one missed the flash of an insolent smile, no doubt in anticipation of waking Chef Sobel in the middle of the night. Speirs’ smile reached his eyes, cutting and devilish, all the more so for the three black lines of paint dragged down his cheeks.

“Okay,” Winters nodded, sending each of them off to their positions, “Don’t forget the code words.”

Speirs took the iron steps up to the roof two at a time, not bothering to keep the noise down. There would so much noise in a few minutes that a few clangs from outside would be the least of anyone’s worries.

The roof itself was a sprawling plane of gravel, cigarette ends and the occasional flower pot, with a brick outbuilding for the electrical generator located right in the middle. Bolted to this was a nice yellow sign that advised: _DANGER. 4000 VOLTS._ and a picture of a stick man being electrocuted.

Speirs tried to stay as far away form the generator as possible, but since it was in a strategically unfortunate place, the roman candle still went into the gravel closer to it than he would have liked, though he ensured that the rocket was placed at a safer distance.

Gravel is not the best place for fireworks. It’s too fine, like sand, and as soon as he had sent the message containing the code word, _flash_ , and lit the rocket, he regretted his decision on placement.

Seconds later, the second code word, _thunder_ , bleeped onto his phone, accompanied by an intense whistling noise and whirl of sparks as the four rockets manned by his fellow seniors cracked the dark sky above him.

He had a beautiful view of the mixed colours, blue and red star bursts, a purple flower blooming against the black Georgia sky and pure white flashes, colours exploding into his vision.

He just didn’t realise that the fifth rocket, _his_ rocket, had not accompanied them until the hiss of an unexploded rocket brought his attention back to the grey gravel, the rocket on it’s side and pointing a path right through the roman candle, into the generator.

There was nothing he could do about it - the rocket was seconds from exploding and the best he could attempt was kicking the rocket so it didn’t slam into the generator; his kick barely grazed the firework. The rocket exploded forward, lighting the roman candle on the way to being thrown into the generator room.

Sparks erupted, banging, booming, throwing fine gunpowder into the air that tangled itself in Speirs’ hair and bursts of light that blinded him for seconds at a time.

When it finally stopped, finally, finally, the electricity had burnt out and burnt a hole right through the door to the generator, which lay a tangled mess of it’s own melted metal and wiring, insides spilling through the gashes left by short-lived fires.

“Shit.” Speirs cursed, observing the chaos he’d caused.

* * *

Inside the dorm, the explosions shook the walls with enough force to wake everyone from their dreams. The lights didn’t come on when they flipped switches up and down, televisions didn’t come on, phones were no longer charging.

The hallways were quickly crammed with bodies, using their phones as torches and swinging them in all directions so the walls were a mess of shadows and vague movement, obscured and muzzy.

Muck, amidst the disorder of the second floor, never one to miss an opportunity, had set his phone to quietly play the _X-Files_ theme tune in the background for added spookiness. He’d almost succeeded in making Babe cry in fear by the time the firm banging on the fire escape door begun. A few of the boys yelped - or maybe it was only one of them, they couldn’t tell - and shuffled to the other end of the corridor. The elevator wasn’t working, either, so they were essentially trapped with a mysterious banging noise and spooky music playing on a loop.

“Skip, turn it off. Jesus, please, you’re freaking us all out.” Malarkey tugged on Muck’s shirt, curling his fingers in the fabric, not letting go. He’d never admit to being scared, but everything was happening so _much_ and so _fast_ , and he was very, very scared that he was about to get eaten by aliens in the dark, in Georgia, very far from home.

The hallway fell silent.

None of them moved, spoke, even breathing grew quieter. Everything stopped except for the noise of something hitting the door. There was one terrifying moment of horror before-

“Open the door, it’s me, Lip,” So, so quiet through the door, filtering down to the other end of the hall, but enough that their collective sigh of relief was audible, louder even than Lipton on the other side of the door.

“Power’s out,” Lipton said when floor two got the door open and started to follow him down the fire escape.

“No shit.” Liebgott muttered, almost tripping on the last step. Webster caught him by the back of his shirt and pulled him upright again, gracing him with a stern look that displayed equal parts fear and irritation. “Don’t take your fear out on him,” he hissed, knowing that Liebgott had been just as scared as the rest of them, and that he was never as quick to get over it as he pretended.

Grimacing, Liebgott caught Webster by the hand and squeezed tightly, the only way he knew how to say sorry. Webster squeezed back, knowing. That was their silent conversation as the group trudged into the lobby, where four of the five seniors were waiting in the dark with the rest of the boys from the third floor.

Instantaneously, a still slightly-blue Babe flung himself at Roe and began garbling about aliens and Muck and _I thought for sure you’d been eaten_. To his credit, Roe held Babe tightly and reassured him that, _no, aliens are not real and I did not get eaten, see_?

It was a very happy reunion for everyone, even as they talked over each other to assert that they were not scared, no way, it’s just a blackout and the dark isn’t scary _at all_.

Winters tried to maintain control, but in the absence of light and with the buzz of conversation, his paternal gaze was barely registering with any of them.

“Where’s Ron?” Lipton had silently sidled up to the seniors, taking them all by surprise. Harry, having jumped slightly, fanned his face with a hand which he then waved in an upwards motion to indicate the direction of Speirs’s last known location.

“He was in charge of the roof fireworks.”

“Please tell me that you’re joking.” Lipton all but begged. He knew the _big_ explosion was from the roof, and if Speirs was up there… well, he was just going to have to find out if he was okay himself, because clearly no-one else was heading out into the night to save their potentially injured friend. Just as he began to make his way to the doors, a cry went up:

“ALIEN!”

It sounding suspiciously Philadelphian and high-pitched, and was followed immediately by a long shadow easing it’s way across the front windows, and a lot of terrified pointing from the boys of the dorm.

Not knowing what to do, and knowing that Speirs was still outside in the middle of a possible (but unlikely) alien invasion, Lipton continued for the front doors.

Three steps away, amidst the chaos, the doors slammed open, cracking on their hinges and swinging inwards again. In between them, someone gripped the door edges and pushed their way into the room, just another shadow in the dark of the room, back-lit by Fox Block’s lobby lights.

The whole of the dorm screamed in unison. No-one was above screaming in fear at that point, all previous fears colliding in one singular moment of horror.

“Why is everyone screaming?” The shadow asked, stepping into the room with an easy gait. Those who still had their phone lights on, and were no longer screaming, pointed their lights at it, illuminating the figure in full, from his bike boots to his explosion-disheveled hair.

Even with the realisation it was only Speirs, the screaming didn’t necessarily stop.

Speirs raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light, frowning into the room long enough that the noise petered out into quiet and breathy laughs of relief.

Winters stepped forward, swiping one hand down to let the other know to lower their lights slightly.

“What happened up there?” He asked, concerned at the state of Speirs’ appearance; slightly singed shirt edges and sooty marks on his jeans. “The power’s gone out.”

“Oh.” Speirs exhaled slowly, biting his lower lip in an uncharacteristic show of regret and shrugged, “Yeah, I blew up the generator.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey guys, I'm adding this note on 13/3/16 just to let you know:  
>  This fic _will_ be updated. I'm currently in my last two/three months of university and I'm basically drowning in assignments and readings. But there will be a new chapter when I can find the time to write, I promise!**


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